Through The Mists. Translated into Simplified “Modern English”. Chapter Five. The Home of Rest.

One of the great joys of this life is how perfectly everything aligns with the right time and place. Wishes and desires are closely connected to the opportunities to fulfill them. When I first arrived here, I was told this was a land of surprises. Now that I had a moment to think and reflect, one of the biggest surprises was how natural everything felt—physically, intellectually, and spiritually.

This was especially true of my thoughts and surroundings after my guide had left me. While he was with me, all my attention was focused on seeing and understanding the lessons he was teaching. These lessons came so quickly that I had no time to fully process them, only to absorb them in their raw form and store them in my memory for deeper reflection later.

I didn’t know how much I had learned, but I was sure my guide understood this and had left me so I could pause and reflect on how far I had come since we first met.

As I stood there alone, my first thought was that nothing could be more welcome than this chance to stop and reflect.

In my old life, when my soul longed to connect with the majesty of the Infinite, but I couldn’t escape to the quiet countryside, I would turn to Westminster Abbey. Surrounded by the unmatched beauty of its grand nave, where stone, music, poetry, architecture, symmetry, and history blended in perfect harmony, I would let go of all restrictions and allow my thoughts to soar upward, carried by the sacred atmosphere that filled the Abbey like a blessing.

I didn’t need a preacher to guide my thoughts because the memories of a thousand years spoke to me from within. I didn’t seek a choir or organ, for the arches and galleries seemed to echo the hymns and prayers of devout monks from centuries long gone.

I didn’t need a congregation, for I felt joined by the great and noble figures whose remains rested beneath my feet. Alone in that silent magnificence, surrounded by the peace of death, where sunlight streamed through the high windows like angelic ladders to heaven, my heart was free to confess fully and hear the silent absolution whispered in that sacred place.

Perhaps, during those moments of reflection and surrender, Eusemos had been among the unseen angels and ministering spirits who surrounded me. Or maybe, while I meditated under the night sky, cloaked in darkness and stars, he had carried one of my many prayers for guidance upward, learning the nature of my soul’s quiet communion. Who can say? Perhaps it was so. Or perhaps it was simply the natural alignment of my desires with this life’s perfect harmony.

Whatever the reason, one thing is certain: my longing for contemplation and the discovery of the perfect place to fulfill it were revealed to me at the same time. The scene of my reflection seemed to combine the best of both my cherished sanctuaries.

I mentioned earlier that it was a grove or avenue branching off at a right angle from the path we had been walking. This avenue gently sloped downward for over a mile, lined with tall, majestic trees whose branches intertwined in friendly embraces. Overhead, the trees formed a canopy more breathtaking in design than even Westminster Abbey, with leaves as clear as glass, softening the sunlight as it filtered through and illuminated the peaceful sanctuary below. The vibrant emerald grass reflected the beauty all around, as if calling out to me to enter, gather the deferred hopes of life, and embrace the full reward of prayers and dreams unanswered on earth.

The invitation was irresistible, so I stepped off the open path into this tranquil haven of music and rest. Above me, the leaves swayed and murmured like gentle lullabies. At my feet, the flowers seemed to sing sweet love songs through their fragrances. In the distance, I could hear the soothing sound of cascading water, adding its melody to the harmony.

Birds, too, contributed their joyful songs, reminding me for the first time that even they continued their existence in this paradise.

The grove ran through the center of what could best be described as a garden park, filled with lush trees—shorter than the grand avenue trees but with wide-spreading branches like oaks or chestnuts. Beneath these trees lay stunning flowerbeds and soft mossy areas, where many people were reclining. Some strolled gently back and forth with the slow, deliberate pace of those recovering their strength after illness. Others sat on benches scattered across the grass, resting as though they were still regaining enough energy to walk but drawing strength from the life-giving aroma carried by the soft breezes around them.

The entire scene had the air of a convalescent home, and the thought seemed perfectly fitting. It made sense that such places would exist here to offer rest and renewal to weary souls who had been burdened by the struggles and pains of earthly life. The idea filled me with happiness and gave me even more to think about.

Seeing a patch of soft moss under the expansive branches of a nearby tree, I lay down without hesitation, knowing instinctively it was the right thing to do, and surrendered myself to quiet reflection.

I cannot say how long I remained in this state of reflection, nor can I claim that my thoughts followed any clear or structured path. What I felt most strongly was a deep sense of rest—not the fleeting breaks that exhausted strength demands for recovery, as I often experienced in my previous life, but a profound renewal. I felt vigour and youth returning to me, carrying with them a growing certainty that the clock of my life was somehow rewinding. It seemed as though I was regaining the robust health I had slowly lost over the years. The sensation was both surprising and delightful, and I surrendered to it completely, filled with gratitude.

I found myself in a state of half-enchantment. Every moment brought new sensations, as if hidden parts of me were awakening capabilities I had never known or even imagined before.

It felt as though invisible bonds were snapping and restrictions dissolving. My soul seemed to expand, rejoicing in its newfound freedom.

For the first time, I no longer felt like a victim of circumstances. All the struggles and opposing forces that had once weighed on me were gone. A quiet voice within seemed to reassure me that this peace was not a temporary pause in the battle but a permanent and complete victory. The sense of liberation and joy I experienced in those moments is impossible to fully describe to anyone who hasn’t lived through such an extraordinary transformation.

Every part of my being worked to absorb this overwhelming revelation. My soul drank deeply from the life-giving stream flowing through me yet still thirsted for more. My body trembled and thrilled with the new vitality coursing through it, as if discovering functions it had never known before. Immersed in this euphoric state, it felt as though the air itself was alive with countless gentle voices, whispering, “Let go, let go.”

Willingly, I surrendered myself to their embrace, and with fearless abandon, I drifted into the rejuvenating sleep of paradise.

I have no idea how long I slept because, in this new life, time isn’t measured by the movement of the sun or a clock, but by the progress made. All I can say is that when I woke, all the changes that had begun when I fell asleep were now fully complete. The lines of age and care had vanished from my face, the grey in my hair was gone, and the deep well of weariness within me had dried up. All the new abilities and strengths I had begun to feel earlier were now fully integrated into my being. Though I still had the same consciousness, memories, loves, hopes, and dreams as before, I was also acutely aware of a new, enhanced nature within me—a nature immune to fatigue and disappointment.

Perhaps the strangest part of this experience happened as I woke. I sensed, with undeniable certainty, that sleep itself was leaving me, never to return. I can’t explain how I knew this, but I felt it clearly. It was a unique realization.

On Earth, it’s easy to let go of physical sensations like pain, doubt, or disappointment, and doing so often brings relief. But sleep is different. Sleep is humanity’s most loyal and reliable friend. It offers a safe haven for the weary, a refuge where every head, no matter how troubled, can rest. Its embrace is always open, even for the most outcast and forgotten souls. To part with such a faithful companion felt strangely significant.

Sleep, in its impartiality, reflects the character of God more closely than any other earthly trait. It shows no favouritism; the saint and the sinner, the reckless and the careful, the wasteful and the wise—all are greeted equally by sleep. Sleep does not judge. True to its purpose, it offers rest to all: the assassin and his judge, the opposing armies of warring nations, the hunter and the hunted, all find protection under its care without fear.

Some call sleep unreliable or fickle, expecting from it a perfection that nothing on earth can achieve. But such criticism is misplaced because it is humanity’s own unrealistic expectations that create disappointment.

Who would dare say sleep has favourites among mankind? If someone were to make such a claim, they would find that even in apparent partiality, sleep’s nobility shines all the more brightly. And where does sleep linger with the most tender care? Not in palaces or mansions, but in the hovels and hidden corners of hardship. There, it closes tired eyes with a gentler touch.

Sleep soothes the pangs of hunger, offering dreams that make enduring until help arrives possible. It partners with Charity to stand by the bedside of the suffering, using its calming influence to dull pain when relief or death feels out of reach. In its quiet realm, sleep has reconciled estranged hearts, persuaded wanderers to return home, and resolved misunderstandings. And beyond all this, sleep has done even more: when grieving parents, friends, or lovers have collapsed in sorrow over the loss of someone taken by Death, sleep has sometimes stepped forward as their advocate. Standing at the gate of Death, it has gently forced open its cruel barriers, allowing the living and the departed to meet once more in moments of sacred reunion.

Sleep had been all this and more to me. Of all my companions on Earth, it was my dearest and most faithful. At the moment I awoke, I knew it was letting go of my hand forever, and I would never grasp it again. Throughout the many changes and challenges of life, sleep had been my constant companion—the only one, as far as I could recall, who had never, even once, abandoned me.

Now we were parting. Sleep had reached the boundary of its realm, but my journey was continuing into a future without an end—no horizon, no sunsets, no dawns. In this new life, there was no longer any need for Sleep. Is it surprising that I wanted to savour its fading presence, to hold on to the comfort it offered just a little longer? Yet, I did not feel sorrow in saying goodbye to such a faithful and comforting companion. This parting symbolized progress, another step forward on the ladder of life. I was deeply grateful for all the solace and rest Sleep had provided, but my newly awakened abilities were stirring within me, and I was eager to explore the opportunities they promised.

So, we parted, and I wished with all my heart that every soul still in need would find Sleep as steadfast and consoling as I had. And when their time came to move beyond its care, I hoped they would carry with them the same sweet memories I now cherished.

I had barely gathered my thoughts when my attention was drawn to a man who seemed to be the caretaker or doctor of what might have been the imagined sanctuary where I had been resting. He was at some distance when I first noticed him, stopping frequently to speak with the convalescents, as though checking on their well-being. This gave me time to observe him as he moved closer, for I felt certain that his purpose was to meet me.

Unlike Eusemos, this man was somewhat short, though his slender build made his height less noticeable. His face and complexion had an Egyptian quality, and his bright, liquid black eyes overflowed with kindness and good humour. His expression immediately revealed that he embodied sympathy and tenderness. Though he appeared youthful in age, something about his movements and demeanour suggested he was very old—perhaps ancient—

and that his youthful energy was essential for carrying the immense weight of experience evident in all he did.

He showed none of the nervousness or impatience often seen in young men given positions of authority. Instead, there was a calm and measured confidence in all his actions. He approached every task, no matter how small or unexpected, with the care and attention of someone who saw it as his primary duty. Time seemed irrelevant to him, as he willingly smoothed a patient’s bed, helped another to a more comfortable spot, or supported someone who wanted to take a walk.

Though I couldn’t hear his voice, his demeanour made it clear that much of his success came from the cheerful conversations he likely shared, offering strength and reassurance to those in need. After completing one task, he would linger briefly, offering a warm wave of his hand before moving on, ever watchful for another opportunity to help. His perceptive nature seemed to guide him to wherever his assistance was needed, whether it was requested or silently observed.

I had enough time to observe him closely before he approached me, and any thought of him being a stranger—or me being unknown to him—vanished. I had risen from my resting spot, but the playful, half-reproachful sparkle in his eyes as he came closer made me forget my earlier plan to apologize if I had unintentionally done something wrong by using the floral couch for my nap. Instead, I felt sure I was dealing with an understanding and indulgent friend—or perhaps even a father figure.

As he approached, he extended his hand to greet me, clasping mine warmly in a fraternal handshake. Then, with a peculiar, humorous shrug of his shoulders, a tilt of his head, and a playful expression, he asked, “May I offer my congratulations this time?”

“This time?” I repeated, searching my memory for any past encounter with him.

“Now, now!” he said, shaking his head and wagging a finger at me in a mockingly admonishing way. “You’ve been caught napping, and I saw you do it.”

“Yes, I’ve been sleeping,” I admitted. “But I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble or inconvenience by doing so.”

“Hush, hush, hush!” he interrupted quickly. “Don’t apologize. What’s natural is always right and never needs to be regretted. As for trouble or inconvenience, you left them behind when you came through the mists. If you’re hoping to reconnect with them, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed—they can’t exist in this life.”

“I hope then,” I replied, “that by sleeping, I haven’t interfered with any plans you may have had. I assume you’re the friend I was expecting to meet here?”

“Yes, I’m Cushna,” he confirmed. “And as for your sleeping, it wasn’t a disruption at all—it was more a part of the plan than a deviation from it.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” I said. “But tell me—how long have I been sleeping? I have no idea.”

"I don’t know either," he replied with one of those humorous shrugs of his shoulders, hinting at some playful thought. Then he continued, "You see, maybe we’re at a bit of a disadvantage when it comes to keeping track of time. Or perhaps, we’re actually lucky not to bother with it. First of all, we don’t have any clocks here. And even if we did, they wouldn’t work."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Let me explain. This lovely spot is the Home of Rest, and everyone here comes for just that—rest. So, it’s not unusual that I found you asleep. Long, long ago—so long ago I can’t even estimate, perhaps back in the early days of Earth’s history—it’s said that Time itself visited this place. Time was so enchanted by the peace and rest it found here that it decided to stay. And ever since, no one has been able to persuade it to move again. That’s why I can’t tell you how long you were asleep. And that’s also why clocks wouldn’t work here even if we had them. Isn’t that a good reason?"

"Excellent!" I said, laughing. "But I’m surprised—"

"Of course you are!" he interrupted before I could finish my sentence. "Surprise is a native of this life. Whenever you meet her, you’ll notice her face glowing with cheerful smiles. She’s one of the most delightful companions you’ll ever get to know. When she visits Earth, however, she often wears a veil of disappointment and prefers the twilight shadows, so few people recognize her as one of God’s favourite angels. But here, you’ll quickly learn to love her. You’ll find yourself listening eagerly for her silvery voice in every glade and watching for the brightness of her presence on every hilltop. None of the angels here adds as much joy to our lives as she does, and her visits are always welcome and eagerly anticipated."

"Under such circumstances, I can certainly understand how surprises would be a pleasure," I replied. "But I didn’t think it was possible to sleep here."

"And why not?" he asked. "Sleep is the companion of weariness, and their bond is so strong and pure that no one has ever questioned or sullied their connection. Sleep can sometimes be elusive, but like many of her kind, she does so to encourage her partner’s pursuit. The only way to win her favour is to tend to the needs of her partner, weariness. So, where there is weariness, sleep will follow. And where there is no weariness, there’s no need for sleep.

Think about it—when you’ve carried a heavy load and finally put it down, the burden may be gone, but the exhaustion from carrying it doesn’t leave so easily. Similarly, when you recover from an illness, you still have to regain your strength. But if the illness takes your life and separates your soul from your body, do you think some magical cure instantly wipes away the weariness from that struggle? No. Everything in nature—animals, plants, and even minerals—has a time for rest. After all labour comes rest. Why should the weary soul be any different? When the struggle is over, the soul still needs rest and recuperation. That’s why it’s written, ‘So He gives His beloved sleep.’ And in that sleep, the soul crosses the boundary where weariness finally says goodbye."

"Does everyone sleep when they enter this life?" I asked.

"Not necessarily," he replied.

"Sleep is like the night that separates two days, marking a transition between two stages of the soul’s development. Some people, when they arrive here, have not yet reached a state where they can do without it. Their condition stays much the same as it was before, until they come to a home like this one where they can cross the boundary of weariness. Once they do, they no longer need sleep. Others, however, reach the spiritual maturity required to move beyond weariness while still on Earth. They might spend only a brief time here, adjusting to their new surroundings, before continuing on to higher homes."

"I feel like I could never fully adjust to such a life," I admitted. "It’s so different from what I expected, with so many new revelations and so much to learn. It feels like even eternity won’t be enough time for me to understand it all."

“We will never fully understand it all, my brother,” he replied, his tone carrying a depth of emotion I hadn’t heard before. “I am only beginning to grasp it myself, and even those who have ascended to far greater heights than I have still say the same.

The most advanced soul we know says he is merely standing on the shore, gazing out across the infinite sea, a sea he will need an eternity to navigate. Yet even he cannot fathom what lies beyond, waiting to be explored and understood, before he can truly comprehend the full glory and endless development that God has prepared for us. All we can do is seek to understand what is immediately around us. When we achieve that, the laws of this life will raise us to broader and higher realms of understanding. In this way, we climb the ladder whose top rests against the throne of God.”

“That is such a beautiful thought,” I said. “It makes the journey feel so meaningful, especially because everything I’ve seen so far seems to encourage learning and growth. It’s all so different from what I was taught or expected. But when I look inward and see how limited my understanding is, and then outward, realizing that every answer I’ve received leads to even more questions, I feel overwhelmed.

What I’ve already experienced is more than I ever imagined heaven to be, more than I feel capable of comprehending. How can I hope to move forward?”

“I understand that feeling very well,” he said. “I was once in your place, and remembering my own journey gives me great joy in helping you start yours. Don’t concern yourself with the time it might take to learn. I told you; time has stopped here. Whatever time is necessary for God’s work to be completed in you will not diminish the eternity that remains. Here, the arithmetic of eternity is different from that of the mortal world—no matter how much time is spent on your growth, the infinite remainder will always stay the same. When you encounter something, you don’t understand, ask. And when you ask, pause and take the time you need to fully understand the answer. That is how you will learn. And know that assisting you will be a joy to every soul you encounter.”

“I’ve already noticed that” I said. “Since I arrived, I’ve done nothing but ask questions of every friend I’ve met.”

“Keep doing that,” he encouraged. “You’ll find that knowledge comes more easily than you think.”

“I’ll remember that” I promised. “But tell me, is it common for newcomers to travel as I have done?”

“The law of love, which is the only law we follow, is incredibly adaptable,” he explained. “It adjusts itself to meet the unique needs of each individual, with the goal of achieving the greatest possible good in every situation. The watchers at the mists carefully observe every soul as it arrives—not to judge them, as that’s not their role—but to assist them as much as possible. These watchers are experts at reading character, understanding the preferences and dispositions of everyone who passes through. In an instant, they communicate this information to central stations, where the specific support needed is determined. In less time than it takes me to explain, the best arrangements are made, and one or more attendants are sent to meet the newcomer in the arena or on the slopes, which serve as the meeting places.”

“How do these attendants recognize the particular person they’re supposed to help, especially in such a large crowd?” I asked.

“By the robes they wear,” he replied.

“But when so many people wear robes of the same colour, don’t they sometimes make mistakes?” I pressed.

“Never,” he said confidently. “The messengers tasked with this work are highly skilled and trained for their roles. While the colours may look similar to you, to them, there are subtle variations in the shades. Each shade reflects specific traits or aspects of the person’s mind, and certain ministers are uniquely suited to those traits. There’s no chance of error.”

“And is this method entirely reliable as a guide?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s determined by the spiritual chemistry of the life they’ve lived, and it can’t be altered or falsified—it’s a testimony that speaks the truth.

For instance, as soon as we see your robes, blending pink and blue, we understand that you have a desire to learn the truth and an open mind to receive it. Blue symbolizes truth, while pink represents charity. There are other subtle indications in your robes, ones you might not fully grasp yet, that tell of your past search for truth and the disappointments you’ve experienced along the way. Because of this, everyone who meets you feels compelled to help you overcome those past challenges and find clarity. That’s why you’re encouraged to travel—to quench your thirst for truth by witnessing it firsthand.”

“I’m grateful for your kindness,” I replied, “and I hope I won’t be too troublesome as a student.”

“We’re not concerned about that,” he said with a warm smile. “And now, if you feel rested, I’d like to show you some of the ways we care for those who are entrusted to us in this home.”

With that, he stood up from the couch where he had been sitting beside me during our conversation. Taking my arm in his, he guided me in the direction from which he had first appeared.

“Was I mistaken in thinking this is a kind of convalescent home or sanatorium?” I asked as we walked.

“Not entirely,” he responded, “and now I’d like to show you some of the methods we use to help restore those who arrive here weak and in need of care.”