Through The Mists. Translated into Simplified “Modern English”. Chapter One. Coming Through the Mists.

In my life on Earth, people called me a misanthrope or someone who doesn’t enjoy being around others. It’s a strange way to begin, but now that I’m beyond any consequences for being honest, I have no reason—not even if I wanted to—to hide the truth. If anyone feels I owe an apology for the task I’ve taken on, let it be found in the constant sorrow I mentioned in the introduction to these pages. Is what I said true? I ask you to look inward, to your own heart, and I’ll accept whatever answer you find. I’ll only add this: as you are, so is all of humanity.

Let me take a moment to explain myself before I guide you to the other side.

My life was overshadowed by some issue from before I was born, something I didn’t fully understand, except that it left me haunted and without the guiding presence of a mother. My father was a strict Calvinist, living his life with the precision of an architect designing a building, with every detail carefully planned and strictly enforced. He was a respected elder in the Presbyterian Church, with enough wealth to live a life of strong, unwavering faith, and he spent all his years free from criticism or scandal.

My brother and sister didn’t share the same strict tendencies, and as they grew older, their near rebellion only hardened my father’s character further. As for me, I didn’t share or receive any emotional connection or sympathy with anyone in my family. No one ever spoke about my mother—her name was hardly mentioned—but I always felt that if she had lived, we would have been everything to each other. But she was gone, and I was left alone. Books became my only source of companionship, and poets were my greatest favourites.

My earliest memories are of a religious “baby-farm” where I was sent, a place run by people I came to despise for their dishonesty and hypocrisy. I had a naturally gloomy disposition, weighed down by the shadow of some unknown wrong, and my soul recoiled from deceit. I quickly grew to hate those who lied openly in their actions and prayers, asking God to bless their shameful deeds.

These experiences pushed me to find solace in books and develop a strong dislike for interacting with others. I was naturally drawn to religion, but I preferred to answer its questions with my own reasoning and my personal understanding of the Bible’s simple teachings. My experience with public worship in different denominations only confirmed my belief that it was more about appearances and rituals than genuine faith or spirituality. Because of this, I relied only on myself and trusted that a just and merciful God would forgive any errors that came from my honest attempts to follow His will as I understood it.

Despite this, I did find companionship and deep connection in my personal form of worship.

This happened in the following way: I would feel guided—by what I could only describe as inspiration—to the alleys and backstreets of East London, where vice, poverty, and suffering were everywhere. These were places where help was desperately needed but rarely given, where the people didn’t understand philosophy or theology but longed for simple acts of compassion. In these forgotten corners of humanity, I always felt I had a message to share. I found that I could deliver a sermon they fully understood, proclaim a gospel they listened to eagerly, and plant seeds of hope that often-yielded results far greater than I could have imagined.

If the Church was correct and I turned out to be wrong in the end, the gratitude of these poor and suffering people for the care I gave them would make any punishment I faced not only bearable but even welcome. Heaven would surely have plenty of righteous people to guarantee happiness for every soul admitted into those golden streets.

I had no gift for singing, and if the conversations I had heard from religious people on Earth were a fair representation of what Heaven would be like, the overly pious atmosphere would hold no interest for me. To be forced into that kind of company, without any meaningful purpose or work to do, would leave me disinterested and unsatisfied. That was not my idea of Heaven, and for that reason, I didn’t long for it.

It would be a completely different situation for the poor, who are cast aside into what the Church calls "the other place"—because if the Church is right, the line dividing people would more likely be based on wealth than anything else. The rich are the ones who build the grand temples, keep them running financially, faithfully attend services, and make religion fashionable. They provide everything needed for worship, from the beauty of architecture to elaborate rituals.

They even generously contribute to the minister's salary, effectively "paying" for their salvation. So, it seems logical and fair that they should receive their reward in Heaven.

But what about the poor? They work long, hard hours, often have nothing to give, and own barely one set of clothes—clothes made even worse by the smells of the places they work. Their lives are rough and unrefined, marked by crude habits and loud songs. For them, the only place to worship is a plain, whitewashed, poorly lit, and drafty mission hall. With so little to contribute to life and no grand funeral when they die, how could they expect to receive the same lavish welcome as the wealthy, who gave more and left this world in splendour?

Because of this, I always felt sympathy for the poor. When I thought about it, I often felt that I would gladly accept being shut out of Heaven if it meant I could bring some comfort to the multitudes in Hell. The vicar once told me that such feelings were wicked—even blasphemous—but I saw them as simply part of who I was, part of my natural disposition. He eventually gave up trying to change my mind because he knew it was hopeless.

I never understood how being poor on Earth could lead to damnation, while being rich seemed to guarantee salvation. It didn’t fit with my reading of the Bible or with what Jesus taught, especially in the parable of Lazarus and the rich man. If my reasoning was flawed, so be it—but I held firmly to what others might call a delusion.

One evening, while I was on my way to visit some of the forgotten and neglected people I often cared for, my life completely changed. I was walking along a crowded sidewalk, lost in thought as I watched the light, and shadows play across the faces of passersby. Suddenly, I heard a scream. I turned and saw a child in danger, caught among the horses in the road. He wasn’t far away, so without a second thought, I leapt into action, focused only on saving him. I reached the child, pulled him out of harm’s way, and then turned. Something brushed against me. I held the boy tightly and took another step forward. All at once, the noise stopped.

The busy street and the vehicles disappeared, as if some great magician had waved a wand. The darkness vanished, and I found myself lying on a grassy slope in what could only be described as an enchanted land.

But the changes I noticed weren’t just in the surroundings. Few people would have seen any beauty in the ragged child I had rushed to save, with his bare, dirty feet, matted hair, and unwashed face. But now, the angelic figure lying against my chest would have been enough to awe and inspire any artist. As for me, in that single moment, my formal suit had been replaced by a flowing robe that felt like it was part of me, as though it were somehow connected to my very being. Even so, I was fully aware of who I was.

I couldn’t stop myself from wondering what had happened. How could such a complete transformation have taken place in the space of a single step? The boy seemed to understand the changes but showed no sign of fear. He looked up at me with calm, laughing eyes, as if he expected me to explain what was going on.

But I had no more answers than he did. Reassured somehow, he rested his head against my shoulder and fell asleep. I sat there, holding him, consumed by one overwhelming question: “Where are we?”

I found myself lying on the grass in what could best be described as a natural amphitheatre. The central area was filled with people who appeared to be joyfully welcoming and celebrating newcomers. If I could have understood what was happening, the scene would have been just as delightful as it was dazzling. However, since I didn’t understand, I felt more curious than appreciative. It reminded me of watching a detailed and elaborate performance without a program to explain the story. I had no idea where I was, who the people were, or what the purpose of the gathering might be.

Here’s what I could figure out: there were two distinct groups of people. One group, clearly the long-time residents, wore garments in every colour I recognized, along with some shades I had never seen before and couldn’t even describe.

The other group, much smaller, seemed to consist of newcomers who had just arrived and needed help, which the residents were eagerly offering.

I couldn’t help but wonder where these newcomers had come from. Looking out across the plain, I noticed that people were constantly coming and going. On the far edge of the plain, there was a dense bank of fog, its edges clearly defined, almost as if it were enclosed by invisible walls. The air was so remarkably clear that, even though the fog was about two miles away, I could easily see people entering the plain from that direction.

What fascinated me the most was something I couldn’t quite understand. As people moved toward the fog, the colours of their clothing gradually faded until, in the far distance, they appeared entirely grey. However, when they returned from the fog, their colours seemed to magically reappear. I couldn’t tell if this was real or just an illusion. It felt as though the fog had some kind of magical effect or that the plain itself was enchanted.

When I saw the fog, I felt a sudden chill—not because the temperature had changed (it was still warm and pleasant), but more like the chill you get when you leave the comfort of a warm fire and step into the damp, biting mist of a cold autumn evening. I couldn’t fully explain why I felt this way—perhaps it was out of sympathy for the people I saw coming out of the fog. Many of them looked so weak they could barely make it across the plain. In some cases, those waiting at the edge of the fog had to go in and carry them through. Others were carried all the way across the plain before they had enough strength to stand on their own.

I don’t know how long I sat there, watching all of this, but eventually, I noticed someone standing next to me. I stood up and realized for the first time that the slope I had been sitting on was filled with others, strangers like me. However, their presence didn’t interest me as much as it might have earlier. My entire attention was on the person beside me. I hoped he might have answers to the questions that were troubling me so much.

He seemed to know what I wanted before I could even ask. Stretching out his hands toward the boy who was still sleeping in my arms, he said, “Someone is coming to answer all your questions. My task is to take the boy.”

“To take the boy?” I asked, unsure if I should let him go. “Where? Home?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“But how will we get back? How did we even get here? Where are we?” I asked.

“You’ll need to be patient for a little while,” he said, “and then you’ll know and understand everything.”

“But tell me,” I pleaded, “is this just a delirium or a dream?”

“No!” he said. “You will find that you have been dreaming. Now you are awake.”

“Then please,” I begged, “tell me where we are and how we got here. I’m so confused by all of this.”

“You are in a land of surprises,” he said, “but there’s nothing for you to fear. Here, you will find nothing but peace and fulfillment.”

“That only makes it harder for me to understand,” I said, still pleading. “A moment ago, it was night in London, and I was saving that boy from being run over. Then everything vanished in an instant, and now I’m here. What is this place? What do you call it?”

“This,” he said gently, “is the land of immortality.”

“What! Dead? How?” I exclaimed, overwhelmed by the weight of his words.

I instinctively took a step back, stunned by the announcement. But there was something so calm and reassuring about his presence that I quickly stepped forward again and took the hand he held out in welcome. Out of all the possibilities I had considered to explain this strange situation, this idea had never even crossed my mind. The unfamiliar surroundings alone would have made me dismiss such a thought instantly.

I was amazed at how easily and without hesitation I accepted what he said. His calm and understanding demeanour left no room for fear or doubt as the startling truth began to sink in.

“No! Not dead!” he said, pausing for a moment before continuing.

“Have you ever heard of dead men talking or being surprised?” he asked. “When a boy leaves home for school or moves on to start his adult life, or when a girl leaves her father’s house to start a new life with her husband, do you call them dead? Of course not! In the same way, it is wrong for you to think you are dead just because you’ve undergone the change that brought you here.”

“But I have clearly left one world behind and entered another,” I said. “So, while I may be alive in this new life, I am dead to the life I left behind.”

“You need to broaden your understanding and perspective,” he explained.

“Just as houses on earth are separate dwellings, and nations are ruled by different leaders, the various realms and states in this life are like the many mansions in the universal kingdom of our Father-God. So, you are only ‘dead’ to earth in the same way that a schoolboy ‘dies’ as a student when he becomes a teacher, or as a girl leaves her father’s home to become a visitor.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” I said.

“Let me share a simple parable to help you think about it until someone else comes to explain it more clearly,” he began. “On earth, children are lulled to sleep with nursery rhymes, and the imaginary heroes in those rhymes often seem real to them—until they grow up and life’s realities reveal the truth, dispelling the illusion. Similarly, when grown children—that is, those who arrive in this life—awaken here, they realize that they too were lulled into a kind of spiritual sleep by the myths and stories taught to them by the caretakers of their souls.

Waking up to the truth is what makes this place a land of surprises, as you’ll come to see as you continue your journey. But now, I must go and take our little brother to the children’s home, where you will meet him again soon.”

With a kind farewell, he left, and I was alone to reflect on everything he had said. His parable was full of meaning, hinting at truths that only time and experience would fully reveal. But one thing was certain—I had taken an irreversible step. I had unravelled the great mystery of death. Yet, what did I really know? Only that I had gone through the process of dying without even being aware of it. What would happen next? I couldn’t turn back now, no matter what lay ahead.

One thing was clear: there was no reason to be afraid. I didn’t feel fear or even anxiety. Instead, I felt calm, peaceful. And so, I waited and thought deeply about it all.