Through The Mists. Translated into Simplified “Modern English”. Chapter Seventeen. A Poetess at Home.

However, it was clear that none of these cities was our intended destination. We continued onward, each passing moment revealing new wonders, filling us with deeper admiration, or leaving us in silent awe, until we arrived at a range of hills that seemed to radiate all the fragrance and beauty of fulfilled dreams.

Here, we stopped. Below us, nestled on the gentle slope near the base of the mountain, stood a single house—not large compared to many I had recently seen, but perfect in every artistic detail. It looked like the dream of a weary painter, musician, or poet who had finally found rest.

The landscape before us had been shaped not by the wild, tangled, and chaotic force that earth calls nature, scattering weeds, thorns, and brambles at random, but by the true angel of nature—who, saddened by the consequences of man's disobedience, had withdrawn to heaven. There, she could refine her artistry in peace, bringing to life the dreams and ideals that take shape in the hearts of men.

Here, Color and Music had united in perfect harmony. Before me stretched the birthplace of Beauty, Enchantment, Grace, and Rhythm, each ruling over different scented halls of groves, hills, and mountain paths. On the heights, Echo and Song wove their melodies together, while below, the lake rippled its approval in soft silver tones. Birds with dreamlike plumage sang their anthems in the lush, evergreen trees, where the breeze carried the fragrance of flowers. Above it all, the sky unfolded in a symphony of colors and hues unknown to earth, shades so exquisite they had no names or equal in the world I had left behind.

As we approached the house, several friends came out to greet us. Among them, I recognized a woman who often visited The College and was dearly loved by the children. The moment Jack saw her, he ran forward with pure joy, showering her with affection. Despite being a child of the streets, there was no awkwardness or roughness in his behavior—for had not the sleep side of his life been spent learning and preparing for the joys and responsibilities of this home? Though his waking hours forced him to live in hardship, here his true identity was known. He was like a prince returning from exile—no one asked where he had been or what he had endured. It was enough that he was found, and though his return to this place would be brief for now, everyone knew he would soon come back for good.

The time between our arrival and Jack’s departure was filled with congratulations and celebration, for soon, the morning on earth would summon him back to selling matches in the streets. His worsening cough was quickly wearing away the thread of his life.

What a contrast between his two existences! On earth, he was overlooked and ignored; in heaven, he was cherished and welcomed.

But some may ask: If this is true, why don’t we remember any of it? My answer is simple: You have been trained to believe that dreams are nothing more than the brain’s illusions, that the life of sleep is nothing but a fantasy. Yet God spoke to Solomon in a dream, promising him wisdom. He sent an angel to Joseph in a dream, warning him to flee to Egypt with the child Jesus. If God does not change, then He still speaks through dreams now—but you dismiss them as nonsense and then blame your ignorance on God. That is my answer to your why?

When the time came for Jack to leave, Arvez accompanied him to the boundary, but I remained behind, eager to finally speak with our hostess. Arvez had been right—she was not a stranger to me. I had seen her many times ministering to the children of The College—but more than that, I knew her through her writings.

Her poetry had been one of my few companions during the solitude of my earthly life. She understood life as I had lived it—its deep soul-longings, its silent suffering. But unlike me, she had found peace.

I had read in the memoirs published after her death that she had been raised within the Church. Her father, a clergyman, had held onto his faith not as a rigid, thorny barrier that wounded those who strayed but as a gentle, guiding thread meant to lead pilgrim's home.

Her education had been centered around love, which she saw as both the foundation and the ultimate expression of true religion. Under its ever-growing and deepening influence, she had been carried forward like a traveler on a mighty river, flowing into the infinite ocean of God. Yes, she drifted onward, but as she moved toward heaven, she sang—sharing her deepest experiences, reflecting back the divine light that illuminated her soul. Her voice had a calming effect on the storms and struggles that surrounded me.

She seemed to understand the vastness of divine love—the heights and depths, the lengths and widths of its reach. When storms raged around her, she sang of the coming peace, blending both trial and triumph so perfectly that there was no doubt of her faith. When she faced the darkest nights of hardship, with no guiding light to show her the way, she relied on the wings of faith to lift her above the gloom, where she could see the Sun of Righteousness rising with the promise of a new day. From such great spiritual heights, her song became a beacon, guiding lost souls to follow as she had followed Christ.

I had followed her, and now, for the first time, I stood beside her as an equal. Was it any wonder that I wanted to stay and express my gratitude for everything she had done for me?

We watched as Arvez and Jack disappeared over the crest of the hills. Then she turned to me, took my hand, and said, "Now we can talk, and I may welcome you."

"And I may thank you for all you have done for me through your writings," I replied.

"But those thanks do not belong to me, my brother; they belong to God. He filled my cup so full of blessings that it had to overflow. Any music in my words was not from me, but from the falling blessings that filled the goblet."

"I understand," I said, "and my soul praises Him for it. But I cannot ignore the fact that the shape of the cup affects the beauty of the music it creates."

"Yes, that is true," she said, her voice soft, her gaze distant. "But even then, the thanks belong doubly to Him, for did He not shape the cup as well?"

She paused, then, as if wanting to change the subject, she said, "Come into the garden, where we can talk among the flowers. Is it not the perfect reward for all the struggles of life to be given a home like this?"

"It is indeed," I agreed. "But even so, this is not quite the heaven you once imagined."

“No, not my old idea of heaven. But I now see the mistake I made, just as all people do. Here, we are not afraid to face facts or question things for fear of exposing weaknesses in our beliefs. So now, I can directly confront the fear that used to creep in when I thought about a soul suddenly moving from earth into the presence of the King. Back then, it was a constant struggle to imagine heaven clearly.

If I tried to listen to its music, I worried that an untrained voice might create a discord. If I pictured its people, I feared that someone might still have a stain on their robes. The idea of a deathbed conversion, especially in some cases, felt too close to the throne to be entirely reassuring.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Now, I would compare our earthly idea of heaven to the experience of a mountain climber. At sunrise, he stands at the inn, looking longingly at the peak he hopes to reach.

His faith takes one great leap, and in his mind, he already stands on the summit, feeling victorious. He looks down on the other climbers—some struggling, some resting, some slipping behind. But faith alone is not the journey. The climber himself is still at the base, and despite his vision of the peak, he must make the long, careful climb to reach it. Faith is good—it gives strength to the journey and removes the doubts that might otherwise hold him back. But it does not eliminate the need to climb.”

“If you could write again, would you now share these later experiences?” I asked.

“Write again?” she repeated, sounding slightly surprised. “Why wouldn’t I? Others continue to sing; why shouldn’t I write? Genius, in its earthly form, is only just beginning to awaken—its full growth, expansion, and fulfillment happen here. The angels once breathed a single note of music to the world below, but earth has never heard the full song. A child’s fingers may pluck the strings, but no one can properly tune the harp amidst the noise and distractions of earthly life. So how can the physical world judge the anthems of eternity?

Thank God, I can still write! On earth, I learned the alphabet; now, I am learning to form the words. And in time, I will write the songs of heaven. Since you have read my first writings, let me now share with you one of my latest.”

With that, she turned and ran inside. Almost immediately, she returned with a book, from which she began to read.

WAITING

Waiting now on the doorstep,

Just inside the entrance of life.

Safe from all storms and tempests,

The noise and struggle now silenced.

My heart no longer races,

My tired mind is finally calm, waiting now, resting peacefully,

Until the Master comes again.

Waiting, where the gentle waves

Of life’s river touch my feet,

Washing away the dust of travel,

Before I stand before the Master.

Until my voice grows full and clear,

And I learn the sweet new song,

Until I forget the discord

That disturbed my peace so long.

Waiting, until my wedding robe

And bridal wreath are given,

Until our father’s feast is ready,

And the bridegroom appears.

Until the seeds of life have bloomed,

And we sing the harvest-home,

Gathering up my life’s long labors

As my bridal offering.

Oh! It is not as men would teach—Just one step from earth to God,

Passing through the valley of death

Wearing the same clothes as before.

Called to praise Him while still weary,

Or to sing, while yet the voices broken by love’s last farewell sob—Could we truly rejoice like that?

No! We wait to learn the music,

Wait to rest our tired feet,

Wait to learn to play the harp-strings.

Before we meet the Master,

We wait to tune our new voices

To the sweet angelic song.

We wait to learn the rhythm and melody,

But the wait will not be long.

We wait to understand the glory

That will soon be revealed,

Until our eyes can bear the brightness

When the book is finally unsealed.

Oh! The vision would overwhelm us

If it were suddenly given,

So, we wait and prepare ourselves

In the entrance hall of heaven.

As she read—or rather, as she breathed out the words of her poem—we walked down the hillside. But gradually, she pulled me into a state where I forgot my surroundings. Even though they were the beautiful landscapes of heaven, they were merely the still backdrop to the soul of heaven itself. Yet in her voice, filled with deep feeling, and in her eyes, gazing patiently down the path of hope, I seemed to catch a glimpse of heaven itself. And that vision completely absorbed me.

Her reading was not just a recital; it was a quiet confession of trust in God. The way her voice lingered over each repeated "waiting" made it seem as if she was drawing all its sweetness from a deep well of assurance—that even those who only stand and wait still serve a purpose. She seemed unwilling to step away from the comfort of that truth.

At that moment, she had forgotten me—forgotten everything except her God, with whom she was again in deep communion. Her soft-spoken words flowed naturally, like the spontaneous overflow of music welling up from her soul. Someone once said that a sleepwalker moves with the unconscious grace of an angel, but I was watching a real angel, lost in the vision of a heaven brighter than she had ever seen before.

I dared not speak, not even when she finished reading. I simply walked beside her, still caught in the inspiration that surrounded her.

I have no idea how long this moment lasted, but when she finally took a deep breath and returned to awareness of my presence, I was surprised by how far we had wandered. She did not speak at first but lifted her radiant eyes as if watching her thoughts drift away toward heaven. I hesitated to break the sacred silence on which they floated.

At last, she asked, “Do you not think these thoughts are far sweeter than the mistaken ideas we held on earth?”

I answered, “Indeed they are. But if this is only the entrance, what must the glory of the inner sanctuary be?”

"I cannot say, nor would I be able to understand even if our friends tried to explain it to me. We cannot fully grasp what we have not yet seen, and trying to do so often leads to mistaken ideas. Since I cannot see it yet, I am content to wait until my eyes are strong enough to bear the brightness of the revelation. In the meantime, I have much to learn and many joys to experience on my journey toward holiness."

"Then you believe there are still other steps of preparation before reaching the final home?"

"Oh yes! There are many, though I have no idea how many. Sometimes I wonder—will we ever reach the final stage? Is there even such a thing? Since God is infinite, is it possible for us to ever reach a limit?

Think of how far we were from holiness when we began our journey on earth, and how little distance we have covered so far. That makes it clear that there must be countless more stages before we could stand in the full, unshadowed glory of His presence. With every new ability and greater understanding, I have gained in this new life, my view of His purity has expanded, while my own unworthiness has become even more clear. Sometimes I think that the memory of our earthly life may have to fade away before we can truly bear to look upon His face."

"But you do not believe that we will lose our identity?"

"No! That can never happen—losing our identity would mean ceasing to exist. But when I think of the piercing gaze of His eyes, too pure to look upon sin, I wonder—if I still remember what I once was, will that memory alone be enough to stain my purity and make me turn away from His gaze?"

"What will we do then?"

"I do not know. That is one of the mysteries that can only be solved in the greater light. For now, we must wait. It is enough for me to trust that ‘God is His own interpreter, and He will make it plain.’"

"When you think of such a moment, do you not long for the stages in between to pass quickly so that you may reach it?"

"Yes—and yet, no!" she answered slowly. "That is the ultimate goal of every true soul, and like them, I long to reach it. But right now, I do not have the ability to fully appreciate or enjoy it. If I were given it now, it would be too overwhelming—it would crush me rather than lift me up. You must remember that when someone has been blind and undergoes surgery to restore their sight, they can only be introduced to light gradually. We have all been blind in our own way, and God's light will come to us only as we are able to bear it. He is too wise to allow us to be harmed by it. So, the highest fulfillment we hope for can only be reached when the soul has grown naturally to its full maturity, and I know I am not there yet.

"As for waiting—well, I feel like a child who knows he is not yet a grown man, but that does not lessen his joy in the present. Longing for autumn fruit does not take away from the beauty or sweetness of summer rain. In the same way, my deep desire to see my Father face to face does not lessen my happiness here.

"Every step I take toward Him brings me a new revelation of His love. Every resting place along the way unfolds more truth. Each message I receive quietly expands my soul, bringing me closer to His likeness. I am happy—always growing happier. My heart is full to overflowing. And yet, it keeps expanding, allowing me to hold and understand even more. I am already in heaven as far as I can comprehend it, because if there were greater joy here, I would not yet be able to grasp it. In fact, there is already more than I can fully take in—my cup overflows, though I do not know by how much.

"That is why I am content. Every ability and capacity I have is satisfied. And I know that as I continue to grow, new abilities will awaken in me, and they will be just as completely fulfilled.

So, like a child, I look forward to what is ahead, dreaming of what I will do when I reach it. But for now, I thank the Father for His incredible love—both in the past and in the present—and I am content to wait for His future revelations."

"How do you view your earthly life now, with this new understanding?"

"If I had to write my own epitaph from my current perspective, I’m afraid I would have to say: 'Of the earth, earthy—very earthy.' I once believed I sang of spiritual freedom, but now I see that I was still a slave, without even the faintest idea of what true liberty was—until I breathed it in here, on these beautiful hills."

"You do know that it is still possible to reach the earth and correct our past misunderstandings?"

"Yes, with the help of some of our friends, I have already broken the silence of my sleep and shared with the earth some thoughts like those I have just read to you. But we still have many difficulties to overcome before we can make much progress in that direction."

"I understand, since some of these obstacles have already been explained to me. But those are challenges faced by minds who have been away from earth for a long time. I would like to know—what is the first obstacle as you see it?"

"You are familiar with my writings," she replied, "so you may be surprised when I mention one of the first difficulties I encountered. But it will show you how different things look from this side. One of the first lessons we need to teach when we return is that the word of God can never be limited to a printed book. God is alive, and His word, like Himself, is always present, always living, always moving. What is written can only ever be a historical record of what God's word was to Moses, Samuel, David, Isaiah, or Paul.

"The seasons, the flowers, the harvests, and the sunshine were not given once and for all, long ages ago. God continually renews them in their appointed time. The same is true of His word. It is like a well of water, always bubbling up—never a stagnant pool that has remained at a dead, unchanging level for two thousand years.

People must learn that He speaks today, just as much as He ever did—if they will only listen. A printed book can only show where the stream once flowed, but it cannot capture the expanding revelation of the present, nor can it fully express the boundless love of the future. This is something our brothers and sisters on earth have yet to understand.

"With this realization, they will also see that the ministry of angels is the eternal channel through which God's word continues to flow. This is the gospel of Christ—the gospel of Redeeming Love."

"Still love!" I exclaimed. "It seems like everything here naturally leads back to that one word."

"It is the whisper of every tree in heaven," she replied. "The breath of every flower. The rippling waters sing it to the banks that drink their kisses. The dew carries it to every blade of grass. The soft winds chant it as they pass. The towering peaks proclaim it all day long, and in the vast heavens above, its echoes dwell forever.

"Love is the architect of every home, the force behind every action, the subject of every prayer. Love alone designed the plains of heaven, shaped every garden, and spread each resting place for the weary soul. Every flower, tree, hill, valley, and stream—everything that makes up this joyful world—is an expression of love. She is our Mother, the bride of our Father. How could we do anything but magnify her name?"

"Then love will be the theme of your future ministry to earth?"

"Yes! That was the one gospel of Christ, and following Him, it is the only message that can come from heaven. I would sing of love waiting to crown the victor when the battle is over. I would whisper it to those who fear the outcome of the struggle and use it to inspire the nobility of youth. Love should be the bread that feeds the hungry, the water that cools the fevered lips of the weary, and the balm that heals the broken heart.

"I would use love as the key of hope to free those trapped by fear. I would build it into a tower of refuge for the tempted.

I would make it the one true comfort for the grieving. Love should be the anchor for the merchant, the guiding hand for the reckless, the restraint for greed, and the chain to hold back cruelty. I would gather the nations together to hear the song of peace that love's waterfalls would sing as they buried the sounds of war. I would bring together the armies of the earth and march them through love’s cleansing streams, washing away the divisions of caste and color, leaving them as true brothers.

"I would hold back fear, punishment, and retribution for as long as possible while I tried to call each lost soul home. I would sing the true music their Father created to draw them back from sin and suffering, returning them to their rightful home and inheritance."

At that moment, our conversation was interrupted by a beam of light flashing across our path, brighter than the soft glow that surrounded us. My companion lifted her head with joy and exclaimed,

"Ah! Here is Myhanene!"

"Where?" I asked eagerly, for I could not yet see him. I hoped this time I might witness the instant arrival that Cushna had told me about.

"He will be here soon," she replied. "That ray of light announced his coming."

"Who is he," I asked, "that his arrival always seems to bring such happiness?"

"You have seen him before?"

"Yes, twice. But I still know very little about him."

“The more you get to know him, the more you will love him,” she replied. “He is one of those pure and devoted spirits who bring heaven wherever they go. His presence adds to the brightness around him, just as that flash of light illuminated our path, and the atmosphere surrounding him is filled with the presence of Jesus. He left the earth as a child, and the innocent simplicity of childhood has remained with him.

In him, we see what sin has taken from us and what the soul would have been like if not for our disobedience. Because of his purity, he has been able to draw so close to the Master that he has been chosen as a messenger between this world and the next, creating a link that keeps the two connected.”

“Are you saying that communication between this world and the higher states has challenges, just as there are difficulties in communicating between here and earth?”

“No, not exactly. The word ‘difficulty’ might give you the wrong idea, but it’s the closest term I can use. Words take on different meanings depending on where they are used, the circumstances, and the understanding of the people speaking to them. Sometimes, the same word can mean different things to different people, especially if one person has no experience of what the other is describing. My struggle to explain this to you is, in itself, an example of what I mean when I say Myhanene serves as a link between these states of existence.

"As the soul grows and becomes purer, it naturally rises, and with that elevation comes an expansion of abilities and understanding. This includes a clearer vision of God, a deeper insight into His ways, the answers to mysteries, and an awareness of how the complex present is shaping the perfect future. These new abilities must be developed, just as students move from one class to another in school. Since each stage of life requires full focus and learning, it makes sense that we need intermediaries like Myhanene—beings who can connect both realms, ministering to both sides without being completely absorbed into either.”

“But isn’t he a ruler of some places in the lower realm?”

“Yes, you could call him that, but he wouldn’t want you to give him such a title. Even though he does lead, his authority comes from love, and he prefers to be seen as a friend, advisor, or at most, a teacher. His role is simply a natural part of who he is.”

“From my short time with him, I can already see what you mean. The way he carries out his role has been eye-opening for me.”

“And every time you meet him, you’ll gain new insights,” she replied. “He’s a living example of the Master’s teaching— ‘Whoever wants to be the greatest among you must be the servant of all.’ But here he comes now.”