“What is that—what will he make of them?”
“Why, jewels, of course!” she laughed, as if my question was absurd. “What else do you think he is making us into? These may appear to you and me as but bits of once-broken glass. In his hand they will become priceless diamonds and rubies and emeralds and amethysts and many other jewels that we cannot even imagine. I am collecting them for him. He will complete their recreation by breathing the life of eternity into them. Then they will sparkle indeed, like no diamonds on earth, to become the centerpiece of whatever crowns he has purposed for them!”
Her eyes glowed as she spoke.
“And that one you just threw back?”
“As I said, it wasn’t ready. Some may think they are ready, but there remains one jagged edge that needs to be smoothed. So they must go back into the tumbler of life’s sea for a season longer. Yet nothing gives me such pleasure as to find those that are ready to be transformed into God’s living jewels.”
“It must make you sad to have to throw one back.”
“Not so very sad, really. They will be so much happier and better off later, when at last they are ready.”
“You speak as if the pieces of broken glass themselves have feelings.”
She laughed merrily. “Do I? Yes… perhaps they do at that.”
As we walked along, I began to scan the surface of the beach with her. I ran a little way ahead, looking along the sand as the frothy waves retreated, until a glistening reflection of red caught my eye. I hurried excitedly toward it, knelt down, and retrieved a small irregularly shaped piece. I stood and examined it. It seemed almost smooth. I ran back and showed it to my new friend.
She took it from me, clutched it a moment, and ran her fingers around it. She smiled a sad smile—though I knew her sadness was for my disappointment, not the glass I had picked up—then shook her head.
“But it is close, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Perhaps. I cannot always tell. I gather only those that are complete. To retrieve one before its time would be to interfere with that individual’s story. One thing we must never do is get in the way of what the Father desires to accomplish in another’s life. It is one of life’s most difficult lessons, having to see the burdens and sorrows and heartaches others must bear in their journeys to brokenness.”
She closed her eyes briefly as she held the red piece of glass. Again, I saw her lips moving imperceptibly. After a moment she opened them, smiled, and handed it back to me.
“Were you… praying for this person?” I asked.
“Of course. It is what I have been given to do. Now take it back and place it where you found it. Don’t throw it into the water, but simply drop it where it lay. We mustn’t intrude in the work that might be in progress at this very moment in this dear one’s life. Intercession and interference are two sides of the same coin that must be rightly divided with wisdom.”
I did as the woman told me. It was almost with a feeling of reverence that I gently dropped the piece of red glass back onto the sand as close as I could to exactly where I had found it. Suddenly it was so much more than a piece of glass. It was, as she said, a living soul.
I walked back. She had knelt down in the sand. I knelt beside her. I saw what she was gazing at.
“It’s so tiny,” I said. “It’s a wonder you saw it at all.”
“I have had much practice,” she said, then reached down and plucked the tiny piece of color from the sand with her thumb and forefinger.
“Was that a baby,” I asked, “or a small child?”
“No,” she replied, standing and drawing in a deep sigh. “This was one who resisted the Father’s training for most of his life and had to continually keep being put back into tumbling opportunities to become his child. Many edges had to be worn off until there is now not much left except the deepest part of his soul. But just see how pretty it has become. He is finally ready.”
She smiled again and dropped the tiny smooth purple piece of glass into her basket with those she had collected. As it fell against the others, I heard a faint tinkling sound, as of a full chord of far-off, high-pitched harp strings. A chill swept through me and I turned my head sharply toward the sound. In the distance, far away in the direction where I had last seen the Mountains, the faintest whisper of an echo resounded into silence. And I knew that the music I had heard from the woman’s basket had in truth been the echo of the Mountains themselves breaking into song.
“Did you hear that?” I exclaimed.
The woman’s face wore the most wonderful smile imaginable.
“Of course,” she said softly. “It is the sound of angels’ harps and voices rejoicing at this lamb who has just come home.”
“Did… did that person just die?” I asked.
“I cannot say. The angels rejoice at many silent victories that take place on earth no less than they do when greeting those who arrive in the Mountains. There are many kinds of homecomings. The Father’s heart is drawing his dear ones there as well as here.”
“How long have you been doing this?” I asked.
“Oh, for ever so long. I never tire of it. I have always loved the sea and everything about it. But when I began to see the pieces of glass as lovely creations of God’s hand, as unfinished broken men and women in the process of being polished and perfected, that is when I began praying for every one.”
“What do you pray for them?”
“That all the jagged and unfinished edges would be made smooth and complete and lacking in nothing.”
We walked a short distance further in thoughtful silence.
“Once I began to see the bits of broken glass for what they were,” the woman added after a few moments. “I knew that the Father had given me eyes to see his purposes, in my own life, and in all lives, and that I could share in that purpose by lifting every living soul whom I encountered into the Father’s heart.”
“You were a Christian, I take it… or,” I added as a sudden thought came to me, “—or are you a Christian? Are you… still alive… there, I mean… or are you dead, too?”
“Here… there… alive… dead,” she said, repeating the words slowly, and with a hint of the smile of knowing returning to her lips. “Have you not yet learned that all meanings are different now? I am where I am. I am where he has placed me, doing what he has given me to do.”
We continued to walk along. I glanced into her basket again. Now first I noticed how closely the ethereal blend of blues in her dress reflected the same hues and shades of many of the stones she had gathered. Somehow, I thought, this remarkable woman was herself a living aqua-colored stone whose edges had been polished until she, too, was ready.
And with the revelation, I was alone.
Sixteen
The City of Debt
My steps led me away from the sea, up a steep dune of sand to my left, over it, and onto a grassy plateau. After several minutes, I thought to glance back. The sea had disappeared.
I walked on. The terrain and air and trees and grasses all gradually changed and the sea breezes stilled until they were no more. The air grew sultry. I saw an enormous tree in the distance. It grew huge in my vision as I came closer, spreading out large branches in all directions, seemingly wider than it was tall. No flame swirled about it, no gold glistened from its trunk. It was, I thought, a giant sycamore. As I came under the outlying shadows of its huge leafy boughs, I was startled to see a short balding man, wearing a tunic, scrambling down from somewhere high in its plumage. He alighted on the ground in front of me.
“Where did you come from?” I said in astonishment.
“From up there,” he replied, pointing up into the tree. “I was watching for you. I have an important message to deliver.”
I waited expectantly.
“You have come to one of the most important crossroads of your journey,” he went on. “You have truly seen. You have looked inside yourself. You have beheld your betrayal. You have begun to know the truth of what you were an
d are, and what you must become. You have begun to loathe yourself. It is now time to begin setting right.”
“Setting right?” I repeated. “I am not sure I understand you.”
“It is not enough merely to repent. There are things that must be put right. Accountability must be taken—for what we have done, and especially for what we have allowed ourselves to become. Accountability for character must be fulfilled. Debts must be paid.”
“What debts?”
“The debts we have incurred by our sin. Every sin carries consequences. In the world from which you came, your culture had become one of tolerance. Nothing was carried to its logical conclusion. Sin was excused. But here, all must be set right—even the tiniest sins. We must face those consequences, atone for them, and set them right. That payment of debt takes many forms. Our debts are against childness, against creation itself, against others, and against ourselves. We must forgive and ask forgiveness. To pay the debt is to become a child.”
“But how? How am I to set right my wrongs?” I asked. “How am I to become a child when I am here and my life is past?”
“Your life is only begun. Life is childship. It is entered into by paying your debts, even unto the uttermost farthing. In my life, I cheated many. I had to search and find them. I paid everyone back four times what I had taken. It took years.”
“How can I possibly go back in time and make right what was done?”
“In this land, that is the easiest of all miracles. Time matters nothing to repentance. Time works in both directions here. If you want to repent toward those you have sinned against, you will be given the means to repent. Its effects will work their way both forwards and backwards. Repentance is only difficult for those who resist it. When the pain of what you have done becomes too much to bear, and you think you must repent or die, then you have indeed begun to live.”
“Everyone here speaks in paradoxes,” I said.
He smiled. “The Scotsman expresses it best, though he also is fond of paradoxes.”
“What does he say?”
“That duty is imperative. It must be done. It is in the eternal law of things. Putting off is of no use. Do not force God to compel you.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“To one who is not of the truth, he says, compulsion is indeed a terrible threat. To such, the fire is the great evil, the great terror. But the man who is true longs with all his heart to pay the uttermost farthing. It is a joy to him that God is determined to have his children clean. He rejoices to know that God is determined that his children shall in the end be incapable, by eternal choice of good, of doing what God himself would not do.”
He fell silent.
“What am I to do, then?” I asked.
“The way to make right will be made clear,” he answered.
I saw that we were approaching a great city.
“Is this another of those towns where everyone avoids his neighbor and the houses grow farther apart?” I asked.
“Nothing like that,” said my diminutive companion. “This is the City of Debt. Your debt. Everyone here is one to whom you owe some portion of your ultimate repentance.”
“But it is huge!” I exclaimed in dismay. “How will I ever…?”
Words failed me.
“You have all eternity to do what must be done,” he said. “This is your next appointed aion. This city will ultimately become your prison or your liberation. The Master’s words must be fulfilled. Whether you come out prepared for the next aion of your journey, or whether this place remains an eternal prison of self-condemnation and your own hell, only you will decide. One thing is certain: you shall not come out of it until you have paid the uttermost farthing of your debts. You have repented and asked his forgiveness. Now you must seek forgiveness for your debts against your fellows. I must leave you. Your destiny lies ahead.”
He turned and walked away. I continued into the city.
It was modern, loud, and bustling—a seemingly twenty-first-century place, with people coming and going everywhere. As I entered through its suburbs and then found myself walking among tall buildings along a major boulevard, I noticed that everyone was looking at me.
A man approached along the sidewalk, walking briskly. He was dressed in a business suit and carried a briefcase.
“Excuse me,” I said, stopping him. “Do you know me?”
“Of course,” he replied. “Everyone does. That is why we have all been brought here at this time, because you were coming.”
“I assume there is some debt I owe you? How did I injure you?”
“You don’t recognize me?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
“I participated once with you in a debate—a panel discussion of the kind you were fond of. I was the token Christian who had been invited to act as a foil for your views. You took great pleasure in ripping me apart. You called me a simple-minded and ignorant fool. You did not actually say those words, but those were your thoughts.”
Tears filled my eyes. I shook my head in abject sorrow to face one whom, like the speaker on the campus quad, my insensitivity had injured. This man was my brother of humanity, a good and honest and sincere man. I had intentionally hurt him. In my arrogance, I had considered myself his superior. In truth, he was a better man than I. Such was now clear in an instant from the look of love and forgiveness on his face.
“I am so sorry!” I said as my tears flowed. “I was wrong. It was heartless and rude of me to treat you so. Can you forgive me? I beg your forgiveness.”
“You always had my forgiveness,” he said with a smile. “I bore you no ill will. I hurt for you. I knew you needed to repent. I knew the day would come when you would suffer for the judgmental spirit that was so apparent in you. In truth, you hurt yourself more than me. The Lord used the incident to deepen forgiveness in my heart. I was able to thank him for it. I forgave you long ago. I have prayed for you daily ever since. Now you may forgive yourself.”
He opened his arms. I approached and he embraced me. I lay my head upon his chest and wept bitter tears of remorse. As I wept, my tears became tears of cleansing. I knew the man had forgiven me.
I stepped away. He smiled again, then disappeared. The sense came over me that he was still alive. Yet I knew that the encounter had been real. A true transaction of repentance and forgiveness had taken place that would be real in his present life as well. I continued along the street knowing that one of my thousands, perhaps millions, of sin-farthings had been paid.
The next individual coming along the walkway was an old man. He walked straight toward me, for he knew my reason for being there. He waited for no preliminaries. I detected anger in his face.
“My daughter read your book and was taken with it,” he said. “I was a Christian, you understand—a pastor. My wife and I had raised her in the faith. She turned her back on the church because of your book. She never spoke to either of us after that. I died never seeing her again. She is now teaching her own children, my grandchildren, your lies. My wife is still alive, but they are not allowed to see her.”
I was horrified as I listened.
“I am sorry,” I said. “I was dreadfully wrong. I now know that my book was filled with lies and deceived many. All I can do is ask for your forgiveness.”
“It is too late for that,” he replied angrily. “The damage has been done. If you want to set things right, go see my wife and daughter and grandchildren and apologize to them.”
He turned and strode off, leaving me staring after him in more than a little perplexity. I fell to my knees on the street, weeping freely for the pain I had caused the poor man’s family.
As I wept, I began to perceive a great truth—that my own repentance and the paying of my debts was not dependent on anyone else, or even whether or not my efforts were received by those I had injured. I must repent whether the man forgave me or not.
I did not understand his reaction to my apology. I had not met anger here before this. I had been told,
however, that all were on their own individual pilgrimages. His story was not mine. I was accountable for what I had done, and that alone, not his response. Perhaps the encounter had been part of his pilgrimage in ways that were not open to me to understand.
Then I did something I had never done in my life. I found words pouring forth from my mouth. I realized I was praying for other people.
“God,” I said, “please give me the chance to repent to that man’s wife and daughter and grandchildren. Heal their family and bring them together again. If you can, sting the daughter’s heart with the truth she was taught by her faithful parents. Remind her of the truth of her youth. Give her insight to see that I was wrong. Restore her and the children to her mother and to truth. I am sorry, God, for teaching people against your truth. Forgive me for my great sin.”
Even as my lips fell silent, I heard the words as if in response to my prayer by Jesus himself, though whether audible or not I do not know: If you can… all things are possible to him that believes.
“I do believe,” I cried. “Oh God, help my unbelief!”
I saw four people walking toward me—a woman and three children. It was the man’s daughter and grandchildren. Somehow I knew that they had been sent in answer to my prayer, that the woman was dreaming and that I had been sent into the midst of her dreams. I ran toward her. She knew me immediately. A smile spread over her face. She began to laud me with praises as I had done to the Naturalist. At last I understood his reply of disgust.
“No, no,” I said, interrupting her, “please don’t say such things. It was all a lie. I am dead now. I know the truth. I was terribly wrong. Forgive me for deceiving you. These dear young ones of yours must be taught the truths about God that you learned from your parents. I am sorrier than I can say for the deception I brought upon you. I implore you to leave it alone. Get rid of my book. Tell everyone you can that it is a lie. Restore yourself to your mother.”
She stared back at me in confusion. Slowly a light of understanding spread over her face.
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