I died for 14 minutes during surgery. Jesus showed me the truth about fasting.
My name is Dalva Christina and I am 57 years old. I died for 14 minutes during surgery and Jesus showed me that the fasting I had begun after discovering I had cancer could have led me to hell. I know that sounds shocking. It might even seem absurd to someone who has spent their entire life hearing that fasting is one of the most powerful weapons a Christian possesses.
I believe that too. In fact, I still believe fasting has power. But what I learned during those 14 minutes completely changed the way I understood this spiritual practice. That is why I need to tell you my story.
I was born in Goiânia, Brazil, but I moved to Anápolis when I was in my early 20s. I trained as a nursing technician and spent my entire working life in hospitals and clinics throughout the region. I know the smell of a hospital, the sound of medical equipment, and the weight of receiving difficult news. I had always been on the side of those providing care. I never imagined that one day I would find myself on the other side, lying on a stretcher with my chest open and my heart stopped.
But my faith has always been my oxygen. I cannot remember a time in my life when God was not present. I converted to Christianity when I was just 17 years old at a small church in the neighborhood where I lived with my parents. That was where I learned to pray, read the Bible, and seek the presence of God. It was also where I learned about fasting.
The pastor at the time taught us that fasting was a way of humbling ourselves before God and demonstrating that we were serious about what we were asking him for. He often quoted the book of Joel, which calls us to return to the Lord with fasting, weeping, and mourning. I took that teaching to heart.
Over time, fasting became part of my spiritual routine. I fasted at least once a week, usually on Wednesdays. Whenever I faced a particularly difficult situation, I would extend my fast to two or three days. I always felt there was something powerful about the practice. It was as though fasting brought me closer to God, as though he listened more attentively when my stomach was empty.
But I need to be honest. As the years passed, fasting gradually stopped being solely an act of seeking God and began to become a strategy as well. I did not recognize it clearly at the time. But looking back, I can see that I often fasted while expecting something in return. Whenever I had an urgent need, I fasted more intensely, as though doing so would pressure God into answering me more quickly.
If I wanted a specific blessing, I would make a commitment to fast for a certain number of days, believing that the greater the sacrifice, the greater the reward would be. I even taught these things to other women in the church. Every Tuesday, we gathered for a prayer and fasting group. I would tell the women that God honored those who sacrificed, that we needed to show him we were serious, and that we could not expect a miracle without paying the price. I used those expressions all the time: pay the price, show that you are serious, prove your faith. I did not understand that I was turning God into someone with whom I could negotiate.
When I turned 55, I began experiencing an unusual level of exhaustion. I had always been an active, hard-working woman, the kind of person who never stopped moving. But during that period, I would come home from work completely exhausted. I needed to lie down and rest before I could do anything around the house.
Geraldo noticed and became concerned. He insisted that I see a doctor. I went, although I assumed it was simply a sign that I was getting older. My routine test results came back normal, but the doctor requested a mammogram because it had been more than two years since my last one. I did not think much of it. I had the examination at a clinic near my home and returned a week later to collect the results.
When the doctor called me into her office, I could tell from her expression that something was wrong. She held the report and spoke carefully. "Mrs. Dalva, we have found an abnormality. I need to order a biopsy so we can investigate it further." My heart began racing.
I underwent the biopsy on a Monday. Waiting for the results was one of the longest weeks of my life. I tried to pray but my mind would not stop racing. I tried to read the Bible but the words would not sink in. I kept repeating to myself that God was in control. But deep inside I was terrified.
It turned out that I had breast cancer, and according to the additional examinations it was already at an advanced stage. She explained that I would need aggressive treatment, including chemotherapy, possibly radiotherapy, and then surgery.
That night, I could not sleep. I lay in the darkness staring at the ceiling and talking to God, or rather demanding answers from him. I said, "Lord, I have served you for 40 years. I have never stopped going to church. I fast, I pray, and I give offerings. Why is this happening to me?" I felt betrayed. I know it is difficult to admit that, but it was what I felt. It was as though all my spiritual efforts had counted for nothing, as though God had abandoned me at the very moment I needed him most.
That was when I made a decision. If God needed more proof of my faith, I would give him that proof. If everything I had done until then was not enough, I would do more, much more.
The following week, I began a 21-day fast. It was not a partial fast. I abstained from food until 6:00 in the evening, drinking only water. I wanted to show God that I was willing to do anything. Along with the fasting, I increased my offerings. Whenever the church held a special giving campaign, I participated. I made financial pledges that I did not even know whether I would be able to fulfill. But I believed that if I sowed in faith, God would honor me.
The entire church began praying for me. The pastor organized seven days of continuous prayer for my healing. The women from our prayer group came to my house every week to pray and anoint my head with oil. I felt supported, but I also felt enormous pressure. It was as though I could not afford to grow weak. If I showed doubt, perhaps God would not answer me.
My chemotherapy began three weeks after the diagnosis. I had never experienced anything like it. The first session alone left me devastated. I returned home with terrible nausea and extreme weakness, feeling as though my body were being turned inside out.
But I did not stop fasting. Even on the most difficult days, I insisted on maintaining at least a partial fast. I thought that if I stopped, I would be demonstrating weakness and God would see me as someone who lacked faith.
Geraldo became increasingly worried. He told me that I needed to eat, that my body was already weakened, and that the doctor had recommended a nutritious diet to help me endure the treatment. But I answered that my strength did not come from food. My strength came from the Lord, and fasting was my most powerful spiritual weapon.
I did not realize that I was destroying myself from the inside out, both physically and spiritually. My relationship with God had become a desperate negotiation. I no longer prayed out of love. I prayed out of fear. I no longer fasted out of devotion. I fasted out of desperation. And every day that passed without a clear answer made me intensify my efforts, convinced that I was the problem because I was not doing enough.
Months passed like this. Chemotherapy was followed by radiotherapy. My body grew weaker and weaker. I lost my hair. I lost weight. And I lost the energy to do almost anything. But I did not lose my stubborn determination to keep fasting.
People at church looked at me with admiration. They called me a warrior of faith and said that my example strengthened everyone. But inside I was falling apart.
When the doctor finally told me it was time for surgery, I felt a mixture of relief and terror. The mastectomy was the final stage of my treatment. If everything went well, I would have a real chance of recovering. But the word surgery carried enormous weight for me. I had seen many people enter an operating room and never come back. Now I was the one who would be lying on that table.
During the week before the operation, I intensified everything. I completed seven consecutive days of fasting. I could barely stand, but I refused to stop. I made an offering that consumed almost our entire monthly budget. Geraldo said nothing, but I could see the worry in his eyes. I ignored it. I believed I was doing the right thing.
The night before the surgery, I stayed awake praying. I made promises, made vows, and declared my faith. I told God that if he healed me, I would dedicate the rest of my life to him—as though I had not already done that, as though 40 years of service was somehow insufficient. I did not realize that I was treating God like a creditor, trying to repay a debt that had never existed.
On the morning of the surgery, Geraldo woke me at 5:00. I had barely slept. My body was weak from prolonged fasting, but I refused to eat anything. The medical instructions required me to fast for eight hours before the procedure, but I had already gone almost three days without eating solid food. I believed this would make me spiritually stronger. Today, I understand that I was sabotaging myself.
The drive to the hospital was silent. Geraldo kept both hands firmly on the steering wheel, but I could see the tension in his jaw. Wesley had arrived from Brasília the previous evening and was sitting in the back seat. Janaina had stayed home with her children, but she had promised to spend the entire morning praying for me.
I looked out of the car window at the still empty streets of Anápolis in the faint light of dawn. I wondered whether this might be the last time I would see my city.
When we arrived at the hospital, the medical team was already waiting for me. They took me to a preparation room where I put on the hospital gown that makes you feel so vulnerable. A nurse came to check my vital signs. When she saw my blood pressure, she frowned. "Your blood pressure is a little low, Mrs. Dalva. Have you been eating properly these past few days?"
I lied. I told her that I had. She wrote something on her clipboard and left.
Geraldo came in to say goodbye before they took me away. He held my hand and looked at me silently for a while. Then he spoke softly. "I love you, Dalva. You're going to get through this."
I tried to smile and show him that I had faith, but inside I was in pieces.
As they wheeled me into the operating room, I kept repeating Bible verses in my mind. "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." I repeated those words like a mantra, trying to calm my racing heart.
The corridor lights passed overhead as the stretcher moved across the cold floor. I could smell the familiar scent of the hospital, the smell of alcohol and disinfectant that I knew so well from my years of working there.
The operating room was cold. Several people wearing masks and surgical caps were waiting for me. The anesthesiologist approached and explained that she was going to administer the anesthetic. She told me to count backward from 10. I began: 10, 9, 8, 7. Then everything went dark.
What happened next is something I cannot explain rationally. I know that to many people it may sound like madness, a hallucination, or an effect of the anesthesia. I had heard stories like these myself and had always been skeptical. But what I experienced during those minutes was more real to me than anything I had ever experienced in my entire life.
Suddenly, I was no longer on the operating table. I was above it. I could see my own body lying beneath me, my chest open with the medical team working urgently around me. I could hear their voices, although they seemed distant and muffled. Someone said something about my blood pressure. Someone else asked for an instrument. Then I heard a sound that sent a chill through me: a long continuous beep, followed by someone shouting that I was in cardiac arrest.
I watched them trying to revive me. I saw the compressions on my chest and the defibrillator being used, but I felt no pain. I felt no fear. I was strangely calm, watching everything as though it were a scene in a movie.
Then the environment began to change. The operating room grew more distant, as though it were being covered by a white mist. I felt a presence behind me. I did not see anyone arrive. I heard no footsteps, but I knew someone was there.
When I turned around, he was standing before me.
I have no words to describe what I felt in that moment. He was not a figure like those shown in paintings. He was not an image from a church picture. He was pure presence. It was love and holiness combined in a way I had never experienced before, and I immediately knew who he was. Before I could even think or reason, I knew I was standing before Jesus.
My knees gave way and I fell prostrate before him, unable to utter a single word. Tears poured uncontrollably down my face. It was as though my entire life lay exposed before him. All my secrets, all my hidden motives, everything I thought I had concealed in the depths of my heart.
He spoke my name. "Dalva." His voice was not loud, but it seemed to penetrate everything. It was firm and gentle at the same time, filled with authority, yet overflowing with tenderness. Simply hearing my name spoken by him broke me completely.
I tried to speak. I tried to say, "Lord," but the words would not come out properly.
He approached me and said something that completely disarmed me. "I need to show you some things."
Before I could respond, the visions began. The first scene showed me in my own home a few weeks earlier. I was in my bedroom kneeling beside the bed and praying aloud.
But the prayer I heard now sounded different from the way I remembered it. I was saying, "Lord, I have been fasting for five days. I have not eaten anything. You need to answer me. You need to heal me. I am doing my part."
Jesus paused the scene and looked at me. "You have turned fasting into a bargaining chip."
I wanted to defend myself. I wanted to say that it was faith, that my sacrifice was sincere. But the words died in my mouth because deep down I knew he was right.
The scene changed. Now I was in the church during a meeting of our women's group. A woman named Sorro was crying and asking for prayer. Her husband had lost his job and she did not know how they would pay the rent. I vaguely remembered that day. Then I heard myself saying, "Sister, you need to fast. When we fast, God is obligated to act. Make a commitment to fast for seven days and you will see how doors begin to open."
Jesus looked at me sadly. "You taught my daughters to negotiate with me."
I felt a pain in my chest that was not physical. It was shame—the realization that my words had placed an additional burden on people who were already suffering.
The third vision was even more difficult. I saw Sorro at home a few days after that meeting. She was weak and dizzy, almost fainting. She had followed my advice to the letter. She was on her fifth day of a complete fast. Even though she needed to work and care for her children, her husband arrived home and found her collapsed on the kitchen floor. He had to take her to the hospital because she was suffering from dehydration and hypoglycemia.
I had never known about this. Or perhaps I had known and simply failed to take it seriously. Maybe I had interpreted her suffering as a sign of weakness on her part.
Jesus spoke firmly. "You placed a burden on her when I wanted to give her rest."
Tears streamed down my face. "Lord, I only wanted to teach people to have faith."
He answered patiently. "You taught them fear. You taught them to bargain. You taught them that my love has a price."
The next vision showed me at home after one of my chemotherapy sessions. I was visibly weakened, barely able to get out of bed. Geraldo had prepared some soup and was pleading with me to eat. He told me that I needed strength, that the doctor had recommended a nutritious diet, and that my body needed nourishment. But I answered that I could not break my fast. If I gave in now, God would not answer me.
Jesus showed me Geraldo's face in that moment. I had never noticed the pain in his eyes or the helplessness he felt as he watched his wife wasting away—not only because of the disease, but also because of her spiritual stubbornness.
"He cared for you with love," Jesus said. "And you rejected his care in the name of a sacrifice I never asked you to make."
I wanted to explain myself. I wanted to say that it was faith, that it was devotion. But every word I considered saying sounded empty in the face of those images.
Then came the vision that shook me most deeply. I saw my daughter Janena talking to Wesley in the living room of her house. They thought I could not hear them. Janena was saying, "I'm afraid, Wesley. I'm afraid Mom is killing herself with this fasting. She's far too weak. But every time I try to talk to her, she says it's because I don't have enough faith."
Wesley answered, "I am worried, too, but you know Mom—she won't listen to us. She thinks that if she stops fasting, God will abandon her."
Jesus allowed me to hear their entire conversation. Then he asked me, "Is that what you want your children to believe about me? That I abandon those who do not fast?"
I could not answer. His question echoed inside me like thunder. That was exactly what I had taught them—not through direct statements, but through my actions, my example, and the way I lived out my faith. My children had grown up watching their mother fast about everything. They had learned that God would only act when we sacrificed enough.
Jesus continued looking at me with eyes that seemed to penetrate my soul. There was no condemnation in his expression, but there was truth—a truth that hurt more deeply than any judgment.
"Dalva," he said in a firm but loving voice, "fasting was never meant to convince me of anything. I already love you. I am already by your side. You do not need to starve yourself to gain my attention."
I wept uncontrollably. "Then what is fasting for, Lord?"
He answered in a way I would never forget. "Fasting is for you to empty yourself of yourself and fill yourself with me. It is meant to silence the noise of the world so that you can hear my voice. It is not meant to manipulate me. It is not meant to pressure me. It is not meant to buy miracles."
I felt the weight of those words. Decades of spiritual practice were being reinterpreted before my eyes. I had always believed I was doing the right thing, but I had turned a discipline meant to deepen intimacy with God into a tool for negotiation.
"And what about the offerings?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Was I wrong about those too?"
He showed me another scene. I was in church during a special giving campaign. The pastor stood at the pulpit speaking about sowing in faith in order to reap miracles. I was sitting in the front row, filling an offering envelope with almost everything I had that month. I remember that day. It had been shortly after my diagnosis. I believed that if I gave everything I had, God would be obligated to heal me.
Jesus said, "You thought you could buy your healing, but I do not sell health. I do not negotiate blessings. I am grace."
Grace. That word struck me more deeply than ever before. I had preached about grace my entire life, but I had never truly learned to live by it. Deep down, I had always believed that I needed to earn God's love, that I had to prove myself worthy, that I had to pay the price.
"You turned our relationship into a contract," he continued. "But I am your father. A father does not charge a fee to love his child. A father does not demand sacrifice before offering protection. A father loves because he loves."
I remembered how many times I had told other women that they needed to prove their faith, that God was waiting to see their dedication, and that there could be no victory without sacrifice. Now I could see the damage those words could cause.
"Lord," I asked, almost unable to speak, "what do I do now?"
He came closer to me. I felt a peace unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was not the peace that comes from having everything resolved. It was the peace that comes from being in the presence of someone who loves you completely.
"Go back," he said, "and teach differently. Teach them that I want their hearts, not their performance. Teach them that generosity comes from love, not fear. Teach them that fasting is about seeking me, not bargaining with me."
"Will I have that chance?" I asked, caught between hope and fear. "Will I return?"
He smiled, a smile filled with tenderness. "Your heart has been stopped for almost fourteen minutes, but it is not over yet."
Before I could say anything else, I felt a force pulling me backward. His presence began to grow distant. The operating room started forming around me again. Then I felt a violent pain in my chest, as though someone had punched me from the inside. My first heartbeat felt like an explosion. The second was weak and irregular.
I heard voices in the distance, growing clearer with every passing moment. "We have a pulse. She's coming back. Keep monitoring her."
The pain was intense. It felt as though every part of my body were waking up at the same time. But I was alive. I had returned.
I woke up two days later in the intensive care unit. The first thing I saw was Geraldo's face. His eyes were red, his beard was unshaven, and his clothes were wrinkled. When he realized I was awake, he began to cry. "You came back, Dalva. You came back."
I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry. A nurse came over and gave me a little water. After a few minutes, I managed to whisper, "Geraldo, forgive me."
He frowned, not understanding what I meant.
I continued. "Forgive me for all the times I rejected your care. Forgive me for putting sacrifice above love."
He held my hand and cried even harder.
During the following weeks, while I was still recovering from surgery, I told my family everything. I told them about the visions, the words Jesus had spoken to me, and everything I had misunderstood throughout my life. Some listened with tears in their eyes. Others remained silent as they tried to process what I was telling them.
When I finally returned to church, I asked to speak to the women's group. I looked at each of them and said, "I taught you the wrong way. I told you that fasting was a weapon of spiritual warfare, and it is. But I forgot to tell you that the battle is not against God. We do not fast to overcome his resistance. We fast to overcome our own distractions, to hear him more clearly, and to draw closer to him."
Some of the women began to cry. Others came forward and hugged me. Afterward, Sorro approached me. "Sister Dalva, I almost died following the advice you gave me years ago. I never had the courage to tell you, but today I forgive you."
I embraced her and we cried together.
Today I still fast, but I do it differently. I do not fast to impress God. I fast to draw closer to him. I do not make offerings to buy blessings. I give because I am grateful. The difference may seem small, but it changes everything.
I was dead for fourteen minutes and twenty-three seconds. The doctors said it was a miracle that I had returned without lasting complications. I know it was more than that. It was an opportunity to begin again, a chance to live out my faith in the right way.
If you are listening to my story, I want to tell you something. God is not waiting for you to sacrifice yourself before he loves you. He already loves you right now, just as you are. You do not need to starve yourself to prove your faith. You do not need to destroy yourself to deserve a miracle. God is a father, and a father loves because he loves.
Fasting is beautiful when it comes from love. But when it comes from fear, it can drive you away from God instead of bringing you closer to him. That is what Jesus showed me during those fourteen minutes. He does not want my performance. He wants my heart. And today, for the first time in many years, I can say that I have surrendered my whole heart to him.
