The Life Elysian. Translated into Simplified “Modern English”. Chapter Three. The Love of God.

Have I disappointed or discouraged you at the beginning of our conversation by addressing and attempting to remove one of your deeply cherished beliefs? If so—and I have little doubt that I have—let me ask you to bear with it for now as best you can. I understand how sensitive this topic is and how the heart resists letting go of a hope I claim to be an illusion. But isn’t history filled with examples of mistaken ideas that truth has forced us to abandon?

A surgeon who makes a deep incision is not necessarily an enemy to our well-being; rather, he is a true—though sometimes painful—friend. It is the harmful and foreign growth he removes that makes the procedure necessary.

In the same way, as we grow spiritually, falsehoods and unhealthy beliefs must be removed before we can enter the deeper truths of the Father’s house.

I am not surprised by the frustrated outbursts or harsh accusations that may come in response to what I have said, but I also know that, in time, you will come to see—just as the words of a well-known hymn say—that:

“Bitter is sweet, the medicine is food.”

And so, I am willing to wait until that day when you can reflect with understanding and gratitude.

“If only we understood the beauty of the flowerThat lies hidden within the rough, unremarkable seed—Its shape, its fragrance, and its brilliant colours—How much more would we cherish it?

But instead, we ignore it, treating it with disdain,Because we expected it to be, in the seed,Exactly as it appears in full bloom,As if we should already see its rich perfection!Not so, my child, only experienced eyesCan recognize in the seed the flower we will one day treasure.”

If our eyes have never seen, how can we possibly imagine? Those few who have returned from beyond have had so much to reveal that I am not surprised by the widespread misconceptions—especially when I reflect on my own experiences. But now, as the true meaning of Christ’s resurrection is becoming clearer and its message is being shared, we will gradually remove these misunderstandings and reveal the truth of God.

We will not do this through condemnation or curses but by appealing to reason. If you cannot accept our message, we will follow the example of Christ and simply turn away. The future will determine what is true, and in that final judgment, we will all be either justified or held accountable.

I do not want you to misunderstand me when I speak of consequences. God's ways are far beyond human understanding, and any loss or penalty He allows will always be a natural result of the choices made. Not all sins or sinners deserve the same punishment. That is why I make no threats of hell simply because you may doubt what I say.

When the truth is revealed to you through your own experience, you will understand it just as I now do. If you reject what I have shared here and refuse to consider it, you will only miss out on the guidance and help it could have given you. The consequence will not be torment, but the regret of realizing how much further along you could have been. That regret will be the only "penalty" Paradise will require. God is love, not revengeful. Let this thought bring you comfort, even if what I have said has disappointed you for now.

Now, I will continue with my actual experiences.

Having spoken of an illusion that was removed, I wish I could fully express the unexpected joy that replaced it.

But how can I put it into words? Even Isaiah, with the glimpse of Heaven he was given, could only say, "Since the beginning of the world, people have not heard, nor perceived by the ear, nor has the eye seen what God has prepared for those who wait for Him." And Paul, after being caught up into Heaven’s glory, could only compare the struggles of life with the reward awaiting us by saying, "Our light affliction, which lasts only a moment, works for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure."

If even they could not describe it, how can I ever hope to put into words the overwhelming joy into which I entered?

I had lost something. Yes. But what I lost was not sorrow—it was the shadow that dims the sunshine, the husk that hides the wheat, the thorn that pricks the rose, the chance of discord in the music, the lingering fear that joy might not last, the doubt about whether holiness was complete or only partial, the question of whether God was truly just. All of these I lost—completely and forever.

Death had shaken away the last traces of every doubt and mystery about these things. And when the turmoil settled, I opened my eyes to "a new Heaven and a new earth, where righteousness dwells." Righteousness, not shaped and limited by human understanding, but built upon the unchanging foundation of divine law. My abilities, my thoughts, and my understanding had expanded, allowing me to grasp at least a small part of God’s vast and limitless design.

I say a small part, because that’s all it was—a tiny glimpse of His infinite, overwhelming love, which stretched far beyond my ability to comprehend. But everywhere around me was harmony, peace, and rest. I stood on the edge of eternity, where no shadows could ever fall.

Far, far within the depths of that sacred and boundless stillness, my imperfect human vision of Heaven had finally reached the heart of the Father. Compared to His greatness, my idea of Heaven was crude and clumsy, like a child’s first attempt to carve an image of something divine.

Yet, in its roughness, it spoke to Him of my deepest longing, my greatest desire, and the Heaven I had imagined as the fullest happiness I could conceive.

And here is the greatest wonder of all: He took my plan—the simple model I had built in my ignorance—and, without changing its essence, He perfected it. Love transformed it, filling in its gaps, smoothing its rough edges, and shaping it into the paradise He had prepared for me.

It was still my Heaven, yet now it was more completed, expanded, and furnished by the love of God. And just as it was beyond anything I could have imagined, so was the joy it filled me with.

But He did even more. After enlarging my Heaven, He also expanded my ability to experience it fully, so that I could appreciate and enter into its beauty in ways I had never dreamed possible.

Was what I gained greater than what I lost? Yes—just as God is greater than man.

The home of my soul, into which I was welcomed, was beyond anything I could have imagined. It gave me the three deepest desires of my heart—my mother, a home, and Heaven—far beyond my expectations.

In Paradise, companionship plays a huge role in determining one’s happiness. When Myhanene stood beside me on the roof of my new home, I was mesmerized by the beauty of the world before me. Yet, as kind and affectionate as he was, his presence was almost overwhelming. I felt something like Peter must have felt when he asked the Lord to leave him, sensing his own unworthiness.

But when I was with Vaone in that same place, I experienced the full joy of rest and belonging. The breathtaking sights I had admired in Myhanene’s presence now felt alive with warmth and love when shared with the one closest to me. With Myhanene, I was in awe; with Vaone, I felt at home. We wandered hand in hand, our souls perfectly in tune, hearing the same melodies, feeling the same joys.

When I stood with Myhanene, I felt as if I were at the center of a vast valley surrounded by towering mountains stretching endlessly in every direction. But more than the landscape, it was he who fascinated me. He could see visions beyond my understanding, hear music I could not yet perceive, and engage in divine communion I could not grasp. Across his face, I saw flickers of inspiration I could not interpret, and within him, I sensed a presence I longed to love but feared to face.

I know he was unaware of this distance between us, or he would have lowered himself to meet me where I was. But I would not want him to. I would rather admire him as he is, for even though his greatness makes me feel small, his presence leaves me with an undeniable hope—a longing to rise, to grow, and to one day stand beside him, closer to the Christ he so dearly loves.

With Vaone, everything felt different. Sitting side by side, we rested in peaceful contentment, while the world before us seemed to pulse with life—life without doubt, uncertainty, or worry.

The scene was beyond description in its beauty, but what made it even more enchanting was the deep, unshakable certainty that everything was—and always would be—perfectly right. For the first time in my existence, the world inside me and the world outside were in complete unity. There was no contrast, not even the distinction necessary for harmony—just pure, perfect unison. I knew that God was in control and that everything around me existed, moved, and served in perfect rhythm with His loving will.

This deep awareness brought a restfulness beyond anything I had ever known—the eternal rest that remains for the soul, a rest that exists in perfect sync with the peace of Christ, which the world can neither give nor take away. The world is temporary, but this peace and rest are infinite. And so, they remain, waiting for us as the ultimate and eternal reward for the brief struggles of earthly life.

In the quiet comfort of these moments—sometimes spent in conversation with Vaone, sometimes in deep reflection—I found myself pondering a question that lingered in my mind for a long time without a clear answer.

Now I understand it, and since it connects to something I will discuss later, I mention it here so you can see just how sensitive the soul becomes to even the smallest details.

On earth, no matter how carefully we try to create the perfect conditions for rest, something always feels missing—some tiny, elusive comfort that remains just out of reach. But in Paradise, I experienced the opposite. Here, rest was so absolute, so all-encompassing, that, strangely, I almost felt as if it was too complete. It was as though it bordered on an effortless contentment that, if not balanced, might lead to a kind of peaceful inactivity.

I had guessed that Myhanene saw visions as he gazed over the beautiful landscape of Paradise from the roof of our home. On several occasions, I too was given such a vision, and I want to share one of my earliest experiences, as it shows just how closely connected Earth and Paradise can be.

I was listening to a soft duet, sung by the silence and the glowing colours of the distant mountains.

Vaone stood beside me, completely captivated by the gentle, melodious tones of the scene. The entire valley was still and peaceful when I suddenly became aware of something shifting—a subtle blending of another presence into the familiar view. Every landmark I knew remained unchanged, but something new and wonderful was being added, bringing an even greater sense of joy. I watched with curiosity to see what would unfold.

A strange but beautiful effect spread over the landscape, like an invisible presence softly making itself known. Vaone saw it too, and with a gentle squeeze of my hand, she urged me to keep watching. I did, and soon I began to recognize familiar faces forming under the trees, near the riverbank, and moving around me. Shapes of people I had once known appeared, and in the distance, the outlines of a simple, dimly lit mission hall began to take shape, blending seamlessly into the valley’s scenery.

The effect was strange yet perfectly harmonious. I recognized the little Zion mission hall, where I had spent so many nights offering comfort and support to the weary congregation.

But now, in this vision, its walls stretched far beyond their earthly limits, merging into the vast and beautiful surroundings of Paradise.

Not only did the setting transform, but so did the people. The men—though they were few—the women, and the children I had once known were all mingling together, moving naturally within the scene. As this happened, the celestial music we had been listening to faded away, like the closing of a prelude, and in its place rose the familiar sound of an old mission hymn:

"Beautiful valley of Eden!

Sweet is thy noontide calm.

Over the hearts of the weary

Breathing thy waves of balm.

Beautiful valley of Eden!

Home of the pure and blest,

How often amid the wild billows

I dream of thy rest—sweet rest!"

Nothing in all my experiences had ever touched me with such deep emotion as that song. God knows I would have willingly taken up my earthly burdens again if, by doing so, that poor, underfed, and weary congregation could have laid down their own struggles and taken my place here. For a moment, the regret almost seemed to cast a shadow over the scene. But then, a gentle voice echoed within me from the vast immensity of the heavens—"They shall be Mine in the day when I make up My jewels." With that promise, the shadow lifted, and I was at peace.

I will leave the song to describe this place in its own way. Any attempt to explain further would only diminish its beauty. Such experiences cannot be fully described—they must be felt. You cannot imagine them; you must enter into them.

We hear that "angels fold their wings and rest" in the beautiful dells of Killarney, and who could doubt it after seeing such a place? But Killarney is not Eden, where every part of the land is filled with a holier presence:

"This is an angel-home, not angel-rest,

Furnished and ready, all in order laid

To entertain our God in passing by,

For He will tarry in such sacred glade."

Some may wonder how far this home is from Earth. The thought of such a place, with all its blessings, stirs the heart and makes the soul cry out with the Psalmist: "Oh, that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away and be at rest."

Let me answer your question. When I speak of these things, "near" or "far" does not refer to physical distance measured in miles, but rather to a state of being. I have deliberately avoided giving a detailed analysis of my spiritual growth during my life on Earth, though I have included hints and suggestions in my story to help you form a reasonable idea of my spiritual position. But what I was on Earth determines what I am now in spirit, and the way I lived prepared me for where I am now. Spiritually speaking, I am only two steps removed from Earth, but I will explain the stage in between more closely later.

This should give you hope, and I say that with confidence. I am not describing a level of existence beyond the grave that is too high or difficult to reach. It would be cruel to do so when most people are misled and struggling under false guidance. Instead, I am speaking about something that anyone can attain, no matter their circumstances, as long as they follow the golden rule and sincerely try to live by it.

Beyond me, there are far greater stages of indescribable glory, reserved for those who follow Christ’s example so closely that they are worthy to enter them. But I am not speaking about those realms now. Most people do not seriously think about the afterlife because, to them, it lies in an uncertain future, and they have realized that those who claim to teach about it (priests) know no more than they do.

My purpose is to awaken this sleeping interest by simply sharing my own experiences.

Truth is powerful enough to break down the stronghold of error, and the response to my first message has shown me that people do care about learning about the afterlife—as long as it is explained with both intelligence and spirituality.

The vision faded, but the lessons it taught me remain with me even now. They have greatly influenced the message I have already shared and the one I am now delivering. I realized that I was not as far from my old friends as I had thought, and the vision served as a heartfelt reminder not to forget them in my new and happier home. It stirred me into action, making me wonder whether others from that small mission hall had also passed into this heavenly valley. This led me to explore and become better acquainted with my neighbours—something I had not yet done in depth.

Yes! I found others I had known before, as well as many I had never met on Earth. Some had come from that little Zion, while others had journeyed from similarly humble and forgotten places in God’s great vineyard. 

This discovery made my home even more precious and deepened my desire to engage in meaningful work if I was given the opportunity.

On another occasion, as I reflected on the beauty around me, I asked my beloved:

"I wonder if this is the Heaven Paul was taken up into?"

"Why do you ask?" she replied.

"Because everything here matches so well with what he wrote: ‘Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared.’"

"Go on," she murmured. "Why don’t you finish the quote?"

"I’d rather leave it unfinished. But surely this must be the place Paul saw."

"I don’t think so," she said. "He called his “The Third Heaven. This is only the first."

"Still, if he had seen what I have seen, he would have found it just as impossible to describe! But if this is only the first Heaven, what must the third be like?"

"That," she replied, "is beyond what we can imagine right now. Let’s be content and satisfied with this one for now. But tell me—why didn’t you finish Paul’s quote?"

"Simply because, for my purpose, the quote naturally ended where I left it. I am not as qualified as the apostle Paul to speak about the love of God."

"And why not, Aphraar?" she asked gently.

"Because people have distorted it with so many strange ideas, conditions, and interpretations that I could never tell what was true or false. In the end, I turned away from trying to understand or follow it."

"Are you sure about that?" she asked tenderly. "Do you remember the vision, when you almost wished you could trade places with those you left behind?"

"Ah, Vaone, if you truly understood the suffering of those lonely, burdened souls, you would wish the same."

"But while you were with them, didn’t you try to help?"

"I did a little, sometimes—not nearly as much as I could have. Nothing compared to what I now wish I had done."

"Still, you did something," she insisted. "And however little it may have been, it was still done for God. Even ‘a cup of cold water given in My Name shall in no way lose its reward.’"

"But what I did wasn’t done in the name of Jesus or God. I never even thought about them. I only did it for the sake of humanity. No, Vaone, don’t credit me with intentions or motives I never had."

"‘In as much as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it unto Me.’ Is that not enough?" she asked, her soft, loving eyes shining with a new revelation.

"Can God really interpret such a small effort so generously?" I asked.

"He does. Did you think you could measure His goodness by any human standard?" she replied. "Listen to me, Aphraar, and let your own experience confirm what I say. The misunderstandings and false ideas people have about God and the afterlife all come from looking at things the wrong way. Men try to define God based on themselves, instead of first seeking to understand Him and then shaping their view of humanity through the lens of divine sonship."

"I have always believed that long ago, a council of men set itself up as God's representatives on earth, deciding what was right and wrong, and making Him subject to their rulings. Then, as different factions fought for power, they split the Church apart, leaving behind a broken authority that has never fully recovered. But for you and me, all of that is in the past now.

I want to understand more about our present life. In your generous interpretation of the small things I did, is it possible that you’ve drawn the wrong conclusion?"

"No." Her answer came with a quiet certainty, as if her voice carried the weight of an unseen authority. Then she continued, "Mistakes may happen in the courts of ignorance, but God rules here. His law is perfect. His justice works with flawless precision. Righteousness is natural, while error requires effort. Do you understand?"

"Not completely," I admitted.

"Perhaps not," she said thoughtfully. "You’re still carrying the last traces of earthly habits, and without realizing it, you bring old ways of thinking into your new life."

"I feel that you’re right about that," I replied. "Everything seems so unfamiliar to me, and I often wish I could go back just so I could understand it all better."

"That is largely because of the way you arrived here," she explained.

"Ah!" I exclaimed, grasping at the hope her words gave me. "Tell me more about that. I know so little, and everything is so confusing. Why was I, along with the child I brought, left alone on the slope when I woke up, with no one around to explain things? Why weren’t we taken to one of the reception homes, like the ones I’ve seen, and allowed to sleep until all the earthly influences had faded away?"

"The many different ways in which people leave their bodies," she replied, "are completely natural and depend entirely on the circumstances leading up to their passing. Those who sleep after death do so for one of three reasons: a long illness that leaves them exhausted, a desperate clinging to life that creates a kind of hysteria, or the overwhelming grief of loved ones left behind, which pulls them back toward earth. In such cases, a period of sleep is given to help the soul adjust to its new life. But none of those reasons applied to you. You came here suddenly, what earth would call ‘by accident,’ and you were completely healthy. More importantly, you had no strong desire to stay in the body.

Your greatest attachment," she smiled lovingly into my eyes, "was already here, so you willingly let go, and you only needed the briefest moment to recover from the shock. As for the rest—well, do you think it could have been arranged in a better way?"

"No! I freely and gratefully admit that" I answered. "It’s just that everything is so perfectly planned and so thoughtfully arranged that it overwhelms me. It all feels too good for me. I don’t deserve it, and that’s why I struggle to understand it."

"Once again, I have to turn you away from the conclusion you always seem to reach," she responded gently. "Perhaps it is too good, but it must always be so—because it comes from God. Remember the old story: the prodigal son was willing to return as a servant, but the Father said, ‘Bring the best robe and put it on him; put a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet.’ On earth, you could hide yourself and push thoughts of God away. But here, you must walk with Him and know Him as He truly is."

Yes, she understood the feeling that constantly followed me, and she was overjoyed each time I experienced something that proved how completely I was surrounded by God’s care.

Shifting my thoughts, I asked, "Will you tell me about yourself? My father—do you ever see him?"

I half-regretted asking that last question, but she immediately sensed my thoughts. She sat down and motioned for me to sit beside her. Her expression didn’t darken, but rather softened as her smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet, peaceful contentment.

“Why do you want to take back your question?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe I was—should I say, half-afraid I had no right to ask it?”

“You have every right, if you are interested, to ask about the relationship from which your life began. I have seen your father once, during his sleep. He didn’t recognize me, so we didn’t speak.

That was for the best, since our connection was never more than a distant friendship, and it was always uncomfortable. Our marriage was one of convenience, arranged to save my father from some difficulty—something I was never allowed to forget. When your sister was born, she was immediately taken from my care. Then you came, and I barely had time to kiss you before all my troubles ended. There is nothing else from that part of my life that needs to be told.”

“But what about your own family?” I asked.

“There, too, I was just as unfortunate. My mother strongly disliked children, and though I was her only child, she never forgave me for being born. She passed away when I was very young, and my memory of her is more filled with fear than love. So, you won’t be surprised to hear that I haven’t tried to find them since I arrived here. I could easily do so, but since there was no love or bond between us, I know it’s better not to for now. We will be reunited when we have grown enough to overcome the distance between us, and until then, I am happy to wait.”

“So, have you been all alone this whole time?”

She laughed brightly at my concern.

“Loneliness in Paradise, Aphraar, would be as impossible as summer without the sun. Look at the many friends I have, the countless visitors always coming and going, and the many trips I’m invited on. And haven’t you been with me much of the time? No, no! I have never known loneliness.”

That was one of the most reassuring things I had heard. Thank God, her experience had been different from mine. In my gratitude, I sat in silence for a while, thinking about the contrast between life on earth and life here. When I had fully considered the difference, I was about to speak again, but something held me back.

"Why didn’t you say it, Aphraar?" she asked.

"What did I want to say?" I asked, wondering how much of my thoughts she could perceive.

"Shall I tell you?"

"Yes."

"It was something like this," she replied. "No matter where I go, what I see, or what I speak about, everything here moves in perfect harmony, in small circles that all turn toward the same center—the constant and all-encompassing love of God."

"You are right," I answered. "That was exactly it, and so it must always be."