For many of us, the Days of Awe are a time of personal accounting, a time to "clear our debts" with God and others we may have hurt over the past year. For Rabbi Alan
Abrams, age 49, the Days of Awe are also a reminder that he will never be able to clear his debt with God.

You see, Abrams believes that four years ago, God brought him back from the dead. Consequently, since he owes God his life, how can he ever repay that debt?

Abrams' relationship with God wasn't always so simple, because, as it turns out, God also played a part in his "death." In reality, all God did was answer Abrams' prayer: "All I ask is to not wake up tomorrow."

What kind of despair can drive a man to want never to wake up? In the case of Abrams, he had suffered a series of setbacks, which began in late 2003 when he was diagnosed with advanced chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD), and doctors gave him a 5 percent chance of surviving beyond five years.

Steroids he had to take just to breathe caused him to gain a tremendous amount of weight. He struggled to maintain his income as a local television producer in Phoenix, but his finances suffered and his marriage began to unravel. In early 2007, his father, who was also his best friend, suffered a major stroke and could no longer recognize him. Abrams was also facing losing his home, where he was helping to raise his four children.

Throughout his ordeal, Abrams fought to keep his life together. He even was inspired to begin studying part time to become a rabbi. He was halfway through those studies when he hit rock bottom.

It happened on the Sunday before Labor Day, in 2007, when an argument with his wife made it clear they were heading toward a divorce. It was at that moment that he prayed to "not wake up tomorrow."

His prayer would soon be answered. On the following Sunday, two days before Rosh Hashanah, as he was watching football with his older son, Zac, Abrams went into respiratory failure. He was rushed to the intensive care unit at Mayo Hospital in Scottsdale, where he was placed in the critical care unit for multi-organ failure.

Two days later, on the first night of Rosh Hashanah, his prayer was answered: His heart stopped.

The doctors worked on him for 14 minutes, until his heart restarted, after which he was placed on a respirator and other life-support systems.

"I lived through death," is how he described it to me the other day over lunch at Shilo's. "It felt like being in a box, like a wardrobe box used for moving. The walls were made of wet dirt, and up above me, I saw in the upper right corner, a red square with a white X in it, just like a Windows program. I knew that if I were able to just get to the X with my mouse and click on it, this horrible program would end, and I would wake up."

The problem was that he couldn't reach the X. "I couldn't stand, and I couldn't pull myself up with my arms and hands.  So I lay at the bottom of this box and cried.  For days on end, I cried in horror of what was happening to me."

Then, without warning, his cries turned into prayers -- the same prayers he had studied and recited in rabbinical school. "As I was crying, I began reciting Tehillim (Psalms) and Daily Prayers.  The Kol Nidre was in my head, as was every prayer after, and I prayed through all of Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah."

Two months later, he opened his eyes and saw his rabbi, Mark Bisman, standing next to him. "I thought I had experienced a weird 10-minute dream," he said, "but later was told how long it had actually been."

Abrams was still in a bit of daze when, a few days later, he was moved to a rehabilitation hospital. As he was wheeled out into the sunshine to a waiting ambulance, he felt two strong arms pull him up, and then heard a soft voice speak into his ear: "Nehiyah beseder" ("We are going to be OK").

He believes this was the voice of God.

He has been hearing that same voice continuously ever since that fateful day. This voice has given him the strength to finish his rabbinic studies, move to Los Angeles, meet his new soul mate and launch a program he calls "on-the-go-chaplaincy," where he visits hospitals and senior homes all over town to provide rabbinic services, including hospice care.

Abrams is available around the clock to visit seniors in need. He prays with them, blesses them, says words of Torah, teaches Hebrew, sings holiday songs, tells jokes, provides grief counseling, and, in a pinch, will bring out his secret weapon: his dog Samantha. Samantha is a blond, 10-pound, Chihuahua-terrier mix that has her own Facebook page and is madly in love with the human race. Apparently, many patients are now asking for Samantha before they ask for the rabbi.

Of course, as a rabbi, he must also give sermons.

At this time of year, Abrams' sermons rarely fail to mention his "afterlife" teshuvah, when he cried and prayed in a box full of wet dirt, and God returned his soul to him after 60 days.

He says he does especially well with patients who don't feel like waking up anymore.

"I tell them to never give up on life --because I've seen death, and believe me, it's not all it's cracked up to be."