Chapter 13: The Nursery

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I seemed to hear the squeals, whoops and giggles of little children. It had to be a dream, but as time wore on I began to doubt that presumption. Where am I now? I moaned to myself. What is happening to me? And why? It was bad enough being who knows how many light-years from earth, let alone bouncing from one alien world to another.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of pounding hooves. They were getting dangerously close. I opened my eyes in a panic, stared for a split second of wide-eyed disbelief, then slammed my eyes shut again. Oh no!

If only I could say it felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach. It was far worse.

A few seconds later I again cracked open my eyelids to confirm that my eyes had not somehow betrayed me, then bolted them tight in horror.

A few seconds later I again cracked open my eyelids to confirm that my eyes had not somehow betrayed me, then bolted them tight in horror.

Until now, so many experiences, though off the scale in weirdness, had somehow seemed remarkably real. Now it all came crashing down in one sickening blow. I had no idea how it happened but I must have been on some type of hallucinogen the entire time.

The hooves belonged to gaudily colored unicorns with golden horns, ridden by giggling children who seemed to be racing each other. They were followed by a moronic assortment of other ludicrous creatures, each ridden by children squealing in delight.

After a minute or so with my eyes again mercifully closed, curiosity got the better of me. The next fleeting moment I could bear looking at the nonsense was briefer than it takes to describe what I glimpsed. A giant grasshopper was saddled up with a rider. In pursuit was a lime green ostrich followed by what looked like a dinosaur with pink and white zebra stripes.

Could it be that my previous experiences had been real but the last time I lost consciousness I fell into some sort of deep sleep and now – only now – I’m dreaming? If so, it’s the most vivid dream I’ve even had, even if it is one of the least believable.

Is it possible to dream when knocked unconscious? I felt so peculiar that I wondered if the next time I regain consciousness I would find myself in hospital hooked up to life-support. Or maybe in a pysch ward.

I instantly regretted that last thought. As I pictured myself coming to in an insane asylum, horror gripped me so tightly it seemed it would never let go. If ever it were possible to unthink a thought . . .

I had never thought of it when life had been mundane but I have since come to suspect that it is as strong as any survival instinct for our minds to keep convincing ourselves that what we see, hear and touch must be reality. This mental bias, combined with hair-curling clashes with evil beings, and what had seemed a reassuringly realistic and biblically accurate glimpse of Jesus preaching, had pushed from my consciousness worries about spider venom and seven legs (hey! had I actually checked how many legs that spider had?). Now, with devastating reason, all those concerns were flooding back in a tsunami so horrifying that it seemed not only my body but my brain would freeze in fear.

I passed out.

When I came to, I was disappointed with myself. Passing out seemed to have become my primary coping mechanism. How pathetic! Moreover, it had solved nothing. Oblivious to thoughts that were shredding my mind like an exploding bomb, the insane procession mercilessly continued to assault my eyes. An oversized rocking horse somehow propelled itself forward. Flying above it was what I presume to be a mythical Pegasus. The horse-like monstrosity with gossamer wings was predominately red with orange heart-shaped polka dots and blue mane.

If you have never truly feared for your sanity, you cannot even conceive how grateful you should be.

A cloth giraffe with two toddlers clinging to its baggy neck trotted by.

Too disgusted to tolerate any more lunacy, I turned my head. Now I was staring at a low, spreading tree producing not fruit but various types of ice cream cones. Next to it was a palm whose trunk looked like an oversized Christmas treat with red and white stripes. You might think it could not possibly get worse. It did. Not only did the trunk look ridiculously like candy; a child was licking it. Above it was a low-lying cloud from which children were peering down on me. Lamentably, I am not being poetic to say it looked like cotton candy. One of the children even seemed to be eating it. A gigantic bubble floated by. Inside it was an overjoyed little boy, bouncing up and down in obvious delight. I had had enough. I sealed shut my eyes.

Remarkably – since the hallucination must surely have arisen from my own subconscious – nothing seemed to correspond to my own childhood fantasies, except perhaps for the cloud. Lying on clouds had a vague twinge of familiarity about it. Perhaps as a child I had daydreamed of something remotely similar, but not edible clouds, and I had no recollection of the rest. Unicorns seemed more like a little girl’s fantasy.

This event soured everything. What had previously filled me with wonder and I had considered myself privileged to have witnessed, now disgusted me. I felt as humiliated as a victim of the cruelest hoax. Being betrayed by my most trusted friend could not have ripped me apart worse than this. To be honest, I wished I were dead.

What was I going to do now? I could dredge up no idea as to how to turn off a hallucination. Should I just passively let it happen?

I did not bother to prize open my eyes but I heard what sounded like an angel’s voice in the distance. “This is an immense honor. You have each been selected for an assignment that is especially dear to the Father’s heart.” As the voice continued to expound on the “immense honor,” I decided to look in that direction. An impressive-looking angel was addressing a large group of angels. They looked roughly like other angels I had previously seen. I took this as crushing confirmation that nothing I had previously seen had been real.

It was not that I felt let down: it felt more like having been dropped onto concrete from several floors up and left to writhe in agony.

“You may have presumed that those you see playing here are earthlings who died as children. They are not.” The others looked at each other in what I guessed to be amazement.

“These are child parts of earth-based human who have multiple personalities. Many of them are now adults. As children, they suffered, through the atrocities of war, child abuse or the like, horrors so extreme that to try to cope with psychologically intolerable levels of trauma, the mind of each of them compartmentalized itself. It’s the mind’s attempt to shield the rest of itself from awareness of the trauma.”

This was just further confirmation that I had lost my marbles.

“Much of what you see,” he continued, “such as the gigantic butterfly that child is riding,” (I looked up and there truly was such a thing) “is actually the projections of their own minds. It is their attempt to mentally escape earthly traumas beyond their ability to endure.”

Hey! That almost makes sense! What if this isn’t a hallucination after all? Or is it someone else’s hallucination? This is just too confusing.

How could I possibly be seeing the disembodied child parts of people with multiple personalities? I knew almost nothing about multiple personalities but it does not take a genius to know that any adult’s child parts are not literally children that could leave their bodies and end up in front of me. I’ve seen mindboggling things of late but this is truly off the planet! I smirked, realizing that I had literally been off the planet. Okay, this isn’t my planet but this is far too wacky!

Oblivious to my mind recoiling at the impossibilities, the Lecturer’s words kept rumbling on as relentlessly as a runaway locomotive. “Rather than rationally, emotionally and spiritually resolving issues in their lives, humans in extreme situations typically do their utmost to push disturbing memories out of their minds and even try to trick their minds into thinking it never happened. Some even think this cowardly reaction is heroic or even spiritual.”

The angelic audience erupted. “Teeeeeoool!” “Teeeeeoool!” “Teeeeeoool!” Admittedly when I’d previously heard that weird sound it was usually when fewer angels were present, but I had never before heard so many. I could only assume they had found the Lecturer’s last statement astounding.

“It doesn’t work, of course,” continued the Lecturer after they had settled. “The unresolved issues remain like a cancer in the back of their minds, eating away at them in psychologically and spiritually destructive ways.”

I lifted my eyes and saw green rolling hills. I could see wildflowers on the grassy slopes. Little children of various nationalities were kicking or throwing what looked like large, apparently harmless, balls of fire. Some seemed to be playing tag. Some were just babies, able only to crawl. Some were sitting in little groups on the grass, listening intently to what I presumed to be angels but they did not look like the formidable beings I was by now familiar with. They were smaller, more tender and looked more feminine. Some of the children were being held by them.

The angel kept talking. Not knowing his name, I’m forced to simply call him the Lecturer.

“There is also an appalling parallel between what happens within the bodies of these people, with different parts squabbling, turning against each other and acting independently, and what happens in Christ’s physical body that is his church. So many parts within his body keep doing their own thing, creating chaos and rendering his body dysfunctional.”

Not only was I shocked when I heard this, even now it seems I will spend the rest of my life trying to unravel the implications.

The Lecturer continued, “Of course, the parts who are here, benefit from the spiritual instruction we provide and from bonding with the Son of God. But we also provide things of critical importance to the healthy mental development of these earthly creatures, such as stress-free play and social interaction that trauma had cruelly deprived them of when they were growing up. And helping any mind here ends up helping the entire mind of the person on earth he or she belongs to.

“Earthlings who understand a fractured mind will not harass or persecute parts of their own minds. So for them, this place in unnecessary. These parts you see, however, need to be here to avoid being oppressed and re-traumatized by other parts of their own mind. They have suffered rejection not just by other people but by the remainder of their own minds. When the parts on earth finally accept the importance of lovingly accepting each part, it will be safe for the parts here to return to earth and contribute to healing of the mind they belong to.”

Their minds might benefit but I was not so sure about my own mind as it spun wildly trying to grasp what was being said.

Anyhow, the Lecturer had more to say: “Those child parts who have come here, do so because on earth they are in a highly vulnerable situation. Often the actual trauma ended years ago but these are being mercilessly tormented there by people who either don’t care or don’t understand the psychological damage they are inflicting. Some of these parts have been persecuted or abused by the very person who shares their brain. Some have been terrorized by pastors or Christian counselors who treat these child parts, the darlings of the Father’s heart, as demons.”

“Teeeeeoool!” “Teeeeeoool!” “Teeeeeoool!” “Teeeeeoool!” They were off again, almost like triggered smoke detectors.

What I was hearing was bewildering but made enough sense for me to revise my previous presumption that all my unearthly experiences had been nothing but cruel tricks of the mind. I should have been immensely relieved, But I wasn’t. It was more like a serious wound that was slowly beginning to heal. You don’t – or at least I don’t – instantly bounce back from something that had felt like the most sickening blow.

The Lecturer continued. “Someone having several personalities within him sounds superficially like demons, doesn’t it?”

Having risen to the status of self-proclaimed expert at angelic body language, it seemed to me that they were not impressed by that statement.

“In a frantic attempt to simplify a world they find overwhelmingly complex, humans want to label everything they don’t understand; trying to force everything they encounter into the few categories they know. Even godly humans keep forgetting to consult the Spring of all Knowledge and Wisdom before leaping to disastrously wrong assumptions. So, with tragic consequences, some with less understanding of demons than they suppose, presume that the child parts of traumatized people are demons.

“One of the greatest weaknesses humans have is their intelligence.”

“Just to clarify something,” interrupted one of the listeners, “you mean their lack of intelligence, don’t you?”.

“No, Teshua. As far as creatures go – especially earthly creatures – human intelligence is not insignificant. Because of this, so many of them keep sliding into the horrendous presumption that they know enough or can figure out enough not to need to keep consulting the Omniscient Lord on every matter. The more intelligent one is, the greater the danger of trusting one’s intellectual powers or experience, rather than keep humbly seeking the *Supreme One’s revelation. You see –”

Suddenly the children went wild with excitement.

“It’s pandemonium whenever their beloved Papa arrives!” grinned the Lecturer. “You just have to forget about trying to instruct or guide them at such times!”

Then I saw him. His features were only vaguely like the earthly Jesus I had seen before, but he was so stunningly regal that I just knew this had to be Heaven’s Delight; the exalted Son of God. Everything about him, though reminiscent of humanity, was markedly different from any earthly person. His skin literally glowed. His slightly wavy, shoulder length hair was brownish but, perhaps because of the radiance emanating from him, no one on earth has hair that color. He seemed of no particular race, and yet I could see in him features of every racial group. With an enormous grin and sparkling eyes he was beaming with delight at the children. It seemed that each child was his precious darling, the light of his life.

I had seen the eternal Son of God reduced to someone who physically fitted in with the crowd of fallen humanity, but never before had I laid eyes on the risen Lord, restored to the eternal glory that was his alone. What was now boring through my eyes into my heart was so enthralling that it was like love at first sight. I admit it: as much as I had thought I had loved Christ before, it was nothing compared with what was now overwhelming me. I was entranced. I was out-of-my-mind in love.

It was true: no matter how much all the ‘sparklers’ in that endless Palace were beyond anything earth offers, they were little more than trashy trinkets, and all their euphoria was a split second fizzle, relative to the Lord of glory. The most fascinating things I have ever laid eyes on and the most exhilarating experiences are dead boring alongside this captivatingly radiant Being. Anyone in their right mind would swap in a heartbeat all the treasures and beauty and pleasures of a thousand universes for one moment with him.

You know how I wrestle with words, straining to take you out of your skin and transport you to realms light-years beyond the planet of your birth. If I could succeed in conveying just one thing, however, it would be the beauty, the wonder, the majesty, the magnetism of the eyes of the astounding Being I was privileged to gaze upon. Like prisms, they shone with every conceivable color, but there was far more to them than just stunning physical beauty that utterly surpassed any eyes I had ever before imagined. They glistened with life, twinkled with joy, and beamed with love. In comparison, diamonds are dull, fire is frigid, and leaping gazelles are lifeless. But even more than this, his eyes revealed such warmth, such openness, such acceptance that instead of cowering in fear, I felt irresistibly drawn to this Man who was infinitely more than man. No matter how macho I tried to be, I felt that to be in his arms was to truly be home for the first time in my life. One glimpse at those eyes would sweeten the sourest soul, melt the hardest heart and satiate the most love-starved person.

I saw boundless wisdom, goodness, agelessness, infinity and eternity in those eyes. They seemed endless oceans of love that I ached to dive into and soak in for all eternity. If you think it madness for me to see so much in one pair of eyes, the explanation is simple: you have never seen such eyes.

No artist could hope to capture the sparkle, the depth, the love, the life, the fun, the playfulness, the tenderness, the fire in those eyes. Never before had it struck me as repugnant blasphemy to try to represent the magnificence of the Pre-eminent One by using two or three dimensional images. If we cannot even capture love in stone or on canvass, who dare imagine that any attempt at portraying the glory of the Infinite One would end up anything less than a sick insult?

Eventually I found myself able to note other things about him. His robe was a warm golden color that shimmered in the radiance, revealing hints of the colors of the rainbow. The fabric seemed a little like satin. I was surprised that his feet were bare. Was this reaction simply my cultural bias? My mind momentarily slid into overdrive to process this. I concluded that if we regard someone as fully dressed despite having bare hands, face and head, why should feet be covered?

I am procrastinating. Although the exalted Lord’s lack of shoes initially set my mind rattling, I soon discovered something far more riveting about his feet. It soared to the most sacred experience of my life. My dilemma is that if it does not defy explanation, it certainly eludes my ability to make fully intelligible to anyone what it did to me and why it impacted me so profoundly.

The next few paragraphs are so inadequate that it is not just embarrassment that keeps me from divulging how long I have spent laboring over writing them. Here’s how my mind works: telling you how much time I’ve devoted to this would stew me with anxiety over whether you might think I’m exaggerating. From there my worries would hurtle out of control. If readers doubt the accuracy of this account I might as well quit writing.

You might think my mind is more of an ass than an asset but it’s what I’m stuck with. At times it drives me nuts and I worry I’m dragging you down with me. Nevertheless, fear that you will not believe me stops me from specifying how long I’ve spent wrestling with how to best convey the impact of those bare feet. I dare admit only that it was a long time. Now I’m worrying I’ve spent too long trying to justify myself. All I know is that I long to do the right thing by you.

Sorry about that. I’m not conceding I’m obsessive-compulsive but you might have noticed what I call an Occasional Obsessive Outburst (not OCD, but OOO, or Ooo! for short). For me, Ooo! is a groan. You, on the other hand, might utter it with an upturned nose as I bore you yet again with still more attempts to justify myself. Try as I might, I can edit Ooos out of this book no more than compulsive hand-washers or lock-checkers can stop their habit. I just need to sleep at night knowing I’ve tried my best to explain myself. The problem is I always feel I could have done better.

Anyhow, I must somehow muster the iron will to move on and provide my attempt to convey and explain my reaction to what I saw. In those feet, and in his hands, were scars that were simultaneously the most hideous and the most beautiful marks I have ever been privileged to see. Prior to this life-changing event I had puzzled over the resurrected body of the eternal Being who does not just live but is Life. Why, I used to wonder, does the incorruptible body of the Divine Healer who will resurrect and glorify even cremated bodies, still bear the wounds of torture? Now, I am overawed with gratitude that these exquisite scars are preserved in living flesh for all eternity. My idle curiosity has been drowned by wonder so overwhelming that it seems almost profane to attempt to reduce it to words.

Never before had I realized how little objectivity is involved in accessing beauty. Deciding that something is ugly or beautiful is almost entirely a matter of emotions. I might have expected to recoil at the sight of such grotesque scars but, instead, the sight detonated an explosion of emotions too profound and powerful for words. I can, however, tell you in just fourteen characters what transformed stomach-turning scars into by far the most heartwarming marks I will ever see. As I gawked at them, the words HE DID THAT FOR ME kept reverberating through my entire being, transporting me to extremes of awe, wonder, amazement and love that I had never before considered attainable.

The very hideousness of those scars elevated them to marks of honor, love and beauty beyond anything else in any universe. Over and over the truth kept cycling through me as I stared transfixed at those ‘ugly’ scars: he did that for me! Never have I felt so loved, so cherished, so valued and so contentedly secure. As extreme as those feelings were, however, I was not at all focused on myself. I was love-struck, almost to the point of being totally oblivious to anything but those scars. I could not stop marveling at the one who suffered horrific torment because of the immensity of his love for me – and you.

For as long as I can remember I have always believed Jesus suffered for me and I had thought I treasured this as a vitally important fact. Now, however, this fact had so dramatically transmuted into life-changing reality as to render my previous understanding more like an insignificant theory than the most thrilling, all-powerful truth on which my entire existence hinges. The difference between my previous belief and my new awareness is as stark as if I had continually protected myself from getting hurt by keeping aloof from a woman I adored but believed was out of my league, and then discovering she has been feverishly in love with me since before I even noticed her. As I stared in wide-eyed awe at those scars, love so astoundingly deep and fulfilling and yet so unobtainable that I dare not dream of, suddenly became reality.

Let me try one more time to explain what happened to me. Suppose your elderly aunt died, leaving you an old painting you had once admired as a child, but now your tastes have matured. At times you are tempted to burn it but out of respect for your aunt you keep it. One day you discover it is a priceless masterpiece. How thankful you would be that you held on to it! That is an inkling of how I now feel about having held on to God’s love for all those years. I thought I knew all about it but I actually had appallingly little appreciation of its true worth. If, like most people, you have not had an experience comparable to mine, I fall to my knees and shamelessly beg you to hold on to God’s love in sheer faith. One day – in this life or the next – you will revel in ecstasy over discovering its true worth.


Eventually, as if returning from a trance, I became aware of the children squealing with delight. “Papa! Papa!” many of them called.

I was taken aback. Jesus is the Son, not the Father! Then it hit me: Everyone’s earthly father is somebody’s son. Jesus was God’s Son, not our son. Come to think of it: I had always puzzled over Isaiah’s prophecy that the Messiah would be called “the Everlasting Father.” He is the Ancient of Days and truly the Father of us all, while remaining the Son of God.

Arms extended, this majestic Being kneeled down – yes, the exalted Lord of glory kneeled before them – and they mobbed him. Giggling and squealing, they knocked him to the ground; jumping on him, climbing all over him, clinging to him. He laughed and laughed as he romped with them in uninhibited delight. His laugh was so heartwarming that I was even more drawn to him. I stood transfixed.

It seemed that to them, he was the personification of fun stretched to incomparable extremes.

As I gazed upon what struck me as a peculiarly sacred commotion, a Scripture rose from within me with irresistible force. The reference escaped me but I knew it was originally in the Old Testament and Jesus had quoted it to silence some of his critics: “From the mouths of children and infants you have perfected praise.” There was nothing dignified about the chaos I was viewing and yet the little ones’ sheer delight in Jesus somehow seemed the very pinnacle of praise, leaving the most sophisticated adult attempts at worship seeming cold, sterile imitations of the genuine article.

I could no longer see the Lord of glory. He was somewhere beneath a pile of squealing, squirming children, but my eyes were riveted on the center of the chaos, in the hope of catching a further glimpse of the King.

I could hear the Lecturer resume, but his words never registered. I was so stunned, mesmerized, besotted – call it whatever you want – that nothing but the slim chance of again glimpsing the Exalted Lord was of any interest to me.

The angel’s words rambled on until at length their significance breached my consciousness with the explosive force of a hand grenade. He had said something like, “These are emotionally shattered people with the fragile senses of earth-based fallen humanity, so he has to tone his glory way down to almost zero for their sake.” Once I understood what he had said, I almost choked.

This is toned-down glory? That shot my mind to when Saul was struck to the ground on the Damascus Road and blinded by the intensity of the brighter-than-noonday-sun radiance of the risen Lord. Even after three days in which to recover, it still took a divine miracle for Saul to be able to see again.

As I pondered the word toned-down I recalled how much less intimidating the angels playing with the children were. They looked far more human. Some were even less than five-foot tall. I looked further afield and my eyes almost fell out. Far in the distance, apparently oblivious to the presence of Jesus, was another group of children accompanied by beings with white feathery wings and halos!

I had by now grown so accustomed to seeing nine-foot monsters with golden skin and alien features that I stared open-mouthed in disbelief. I remained too stunned to even blink, until it eventually registered that each of the heavenly helpers I was now seeing must have shrunk, lost his powerful physique, grown wings, a halo and gained a human face, because these particular children found it more comforting for angels to conform to their own expectations, scrounged from traditional representations in children’s books.

I smugly congratulated myself on being strong and mature enough to see angels as they truly are. Suddenly my fragile mental stability was threatened by wondering whether even the angels I had seen, despite seeming oblivious of me, had modified their appearance for my sake. If what I heard had somehow been modified and personalized so that it ended up a translation, what if . . .

I didn’t want to finish the sentence. Ever since this bizarre series of events had begun, my mind had been continually whirling at far too close to overload without trying to grapple with the mind-convulsing thought that my own eyes might be treacherous.

I guess I should admit to myself that it was more than avoiding intellectual overkill that drove me to dismiss this notion. To be cut off, possibly forever, from home and family and everything familiar – even something so basic as my own planet – was more than intellectually confusing; it was harrowing. This was further compounded by being so isolated as to be treated as if I do not exist, except by despicable monsters wanting to torment me. Even worse: try imagining what it would be like to be in a totally alien, possibly hostile, environment and not be able to trust your own eyes and ears? When already near breaking point under all this pressure, to let myself be haunted by whether my own eyes were deceiving me seemed to jeopardize my very sanity. So I dismissed the notion as preposterous and returned to observing Jesus.

Should, by taking this action, I congratulate myself for cleverly choosing what was essential for basic survival or should I beat myself up for being weak and cowardly? Dare I even see it as heroic? I recalled a movie about Aron Ralston who in a freak accident found himself all alone with his arm pinned by a boulder. Having no alternative, he courageously rescued himself by hacking his arm off, struggling down a cliff face and walking to safety. I could never in a hundred delusional years convince myself – let alone anyone else – that what I was doing neared this astonishing feat, but maybe I was likewise bravely going to whatever lengths it took to pull myself back from the precipice of insanity. On the other hand, we would all be more easily convinced by the argument that I was just being plain lazy. Was I gallantly taking decisive action or proving my intellectual inadequacy or even shrinking from a mental challenge in a shameful act of escapism? I had no idea. I was too smart/frazzled/scared/lazy/crazy/courageous or whatever even to squander the mental effort it would take to analyze myself. Instead, I fixed my attention on Jesus.

Eventually the little ones calmed enough for Christ to begin dancing with them; the attending angels providing the music. As he danced, he would take into his arms each child, one at a time, and whisper in the child’s ear. I could tell by the varying length of time that he spoke to each of them that what he said must have been unique for each child. I was keen to hear what he was saying, so I drew as near as I dared and strained to hear.

“You know how much you like presents . . .” he whispered to one.

The boy’s eyes lit up, “Yes!”

“You really, really like them?” teased the Lord of glory.

“Yes!” the boy’s eyes grew even bigger.

“Well, that’s how much I love you,” he said, as his grin broadened still farther.

It dawned on me that these children who, I presume, we might pity for having never known a kind-hearted earthly father, were now enjoying not just a good father, but the perfect one. They were in one sense underprivileged and yet through the intensity of their intimacy with the exquisitely perfect Father they were now more privileged than those with superb human parents.

Suddenly I felt peculiarly confused as to who is privileged and who is not; who is spiritually blessed and who is to be pitied. As the confusion escalated, fragments of Scripture began whirling inside my head. “The last will be first, and the first will be last . . .” “For whoever is the least among all of you, he is the greatest. . . .” “Those who exalt themselves will be humbled, but those who humble themselves will be exalted . . .” “Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. . . .” “Blessed are those who are persecuted . . .” “Blessed are the poor in spirit . . .”

On and on the torrent of words spun; twisting and twirling inside me. “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding, and revealed them to little children . . .” “Son, remember that in your lifetime you received your good things, while Lazarus received bad things, but now he is comforted here and you are in torment . . .” “Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were mighty; not many were of noble birth. But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the mighty. He chose the lowly and despised things of the world, and the things that are not, to nullify the things that are . . .” “Blessed are you when people insult you . . .”

While simultaneously hearing each word echoing in my head, I could see that word in flashing colors, writhing and whirlpooling. “For when I am weak, then I am strong . . .” “Woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort. Woe to you who are well-fed now, for you will go hungry. Woe to you who laugh now, for you will mourn and weep. Woe to you when everyone speaks well of you . . .”

I began to feel giddy, then nauseous. I panicked, wondering whether I would pass out, vomit, or go insane. Then, as instantly at it had begun, the internal whirlwind of words and scrambled thoughts stopped dead.

Wow! What was that all about? To this day, I am still confused as to who, in the final analysis, is privileged and who is to be pitied.

By the time I was able to focus again, the King of kings had left and the Lecturer had launched into a long, complex explanation of how they could be seeing the child parts of people who were still on earth. I won’t bore you with all of it. Okay, I confess I cannot fully recall it all and, though I hate admitting it, some technical details whizzed over my head.

The best I could make of it is that, except for the spiritual beings, what I was observing was rather like virtual reality. It was a representation of what was simultaneously taking place within a part of the compartmentalized minds of each person on earth who had a part represented here. What they were seeing and feeling in their minds, however, was identical to what I was observing. Whenever someone here interacted with any of these – for lack of a more accurate term – touchable holograms, it was relayed back to the person on earth.

Parts reeling in emotional pain were mercifully granted this experience, if, instead of receiving the comfort they deserved, they were being further traumatized by neglect, or outright persecution by other parts of the person. The other ‘personalities’ of each person were oblivious to this experience, but the specific part of each person represented here was so vividly aware of what I could see that it was reality to him/her. If I were to get religious I could say each of the child parts I could see was simultaneously having the same vision or, more accurately, trance.

Apparently, the time the children stay in this virtual reality (perhaps I should call it spiritual reality) is temporary but can vary from just minutes to years, earth-time. From what I could gather, there are many more groups like the one I was seeing, scattered in diverse locations. There are not just child parts who need this special care, but even adult parts can be so badly treated on earth that they temporarily need a safe haven like this one.

As the explanation droned on, a gentle breeze picked up, wafting the soft scents of exotic flowers, flooding me with its warm comfort. The giggles of happy children were like music to my soul. I looked in their direction and noticed to my disgust that some of them were licking the grass. I glanced at others and noticed some eating the flowers. I stared at them, wondering why their attending angels did not intervene or feed them properly.

As I looked more intently I soon grew so intrigued by how much they appeared to be enjoying tasting the plants that I began to contemplate trying some myself. I tentatively put a piece of grass to my lips and touched it with my tongue. It was delicious! I greedily scoffed a handful and it melted in my mouth like ice cream. I tried a flower and it was like candy. The next one shocked me speechless. It was not just unbelievably delicious; it was like nothing I had ever before tasted. If you could describe peppermint or Turkish delight or strawberry yogurt to someone who has never tasted anything remotely like them, you should be writing this account. If I could only market this flavor, chocolate sales would plummet and I’d be an instant billionaire. Every plant species had a different flavor. Wow! (I almost found myself saying “Teeeeeoool!”) This certainly is a child’s idea of heaven!

Continued




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