I had been working for several months, had received two very important promotions -- and had made many friends. The song of glory singing in my soul was like a magnet, attracting others to me. I had grown so terribly morbid, so dark in my thinking and self-pity, in the east, that I had become repellent and only those still visited me who were bound by loyalty or were endowed with a greater fortitude than most.
This singing song of glory, that was becoming a very part of me, was a power of light that reached out in warmth to enfold a world. There were moments when I actually felt that the world could come and warm itself at the sacred fires burning in my soul. And there were many more times when I am sure that those I contacted in my work felt it also. There were, of course, those who resented me. They resented anyone being so extremely happy, not that I was emphasizing the fact or trying to flaunt it. It was only that I could not possibly contain it all and it would splash out in sheer, ecstatic living.
Miss Barker resented it greatly. Miss Barker did not know how to be happy. She wouldn't have known how to handle it if it had come to her in hunks big as the world. Part of her happiness was the ability to be extremely unhappy. And it was Miss Barker who remarked, "What chance do the rest of us have against Christine?"
"What do you mean?" asked little Martha innocently.
"What do I mean? Why I'm surprised at you, Martha. Christine isn't like the rest of us. She doesn't have to work for a living. Christine has never had anything but success and happiness in her whole life. She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, a college degree in her crib, a gilt-edge guaranteed success affidavit in her hand, a million dollars in her bootie."
"Wow!" I thought; "even the scars must have disappeared." And instead of resenting her remark and her attitude I felt as if I stood on sacred, but hard-earned, ground.
I had more difficulty with the men. They wanted to take hold of that inner something that I possessed. I had to veil the stardust in my eyes, muffle the song in my heart, conceal the breathtaking, glorious gratitude in my soul or they would, almost without exception, unconsciously start grabbing at me. I knew it was not me they desired. It was that singing, illusive light of glory. But they understood it not at all. I had to be careful. Not only to guard myself, but also to guard them. Age seemed to make no difference -- and marriage seemed no hindrance at all to most of them. It wasn't that they didn't love their wives, or that they were unhappily married. Then suddenly I didn't believe that it was diamonds people wished to possess particularly, it was the glitter they desired to own -- that sparkling, shining, inner light.
I realized fully that it was not me they wanted. It was the sparkling, intangible light, the elusive song, the melody of gladness and rapture.
Of course it was impossible for me to explain that they could own it only as they themselves developed it from within. Then, and only then, could they own that which they were grabbing at me for.
Then there was little Martha, plain lovable little Martha who could never resent anyone, nor comprehend how Miss Barker felt. Martha was timid, unnoticed, unexciting. I once wondered how they even remembered to give her a pay check, not because she wasn't efficient, but because she was completely unobtrusive. She was just a little cog in the wheels of the office. But it was Martha to whom I shall be forever grateful.
I came upon her in the women's lounge, at lunch time, reading the last page of a book. She looked up with a far-away expression in her eyes as I entered and whispered in an awed undertone, "It's not possible! It simply isn't possible!"
"What isn't possible?" I asked, not that she was talking to me. She wasn't. She was just talking to herself.
"Why -- this book. All of it! It's like nothing else I've ever read in my life. My aunt told me to get it from the library -- But listen to this little typewritten note stuck in here at the end: 'Annalee Skarin, the author of this book, disappeared from her room while visiting friends in June, 1951. She has not been seen or heard from since. Her clothes were left in the closet. Her car in the yard.'"
"Probably kidnapped -- or wandered away. Or may have been seeking publicity," I suggested.
"No. I don't think so. If one is seeking publicity he, or she, would surely have to show up to seek its reward. It isn't the sort of book such a person as that would write. Neither could such a one be kidnapped -- or -- just disappear. Here, Christine, take it home with you tonight and glance through it. I have to have dinner with the relatives this evening. But be sure and bring it back to me in the morning. I must read it again."
"I'd love to read it," I said, thinking I was doing her a favor.
I doing her a favor?
That book was the most tremendous thing that had ever come into my hands. It reached inside of me and taking hold of my soul took it out of my body and stood it up before my eyes in all its pristine, glittering splendor as it soared forth from the very throne of God to fulfill its glorified destiny -- a destiny far beyond the ken of mortal understanding. It rolled back the curtains of existence and revealed the glorified drama of life -- the past, the present, the future -- the eternal, NOW and forevermore, in a magic touch of breathtaking power.
To put it mildly, Annalee Skarin's book, Ye Are Gods, "knocked me for a loop," even as it had Martha. I never went to bed that night. I'd read, then walk the floor in flames of ecstasy -- and then return to read some more -- and yet some more.
"How could such a book be written!" I thought. "And how could one bear to read it," for it was blinding in the revelation it contained. Later I learned that Annalee Skarin felt exactly that way about it as she wrote it.
I knew what Martha meant when she said she had to have the book back so she could read it again. I wanted so to keep it another day -- to spend another night reading it, but Martha would be waiting for it.
I was re-reading parts of it even while I dressed for work.
It was no longer necessary for me to walk through the Third street tunnel on my way to and from work, but often I went out of my way to go through it. I always felt as though there was a key in that tunnel which should be revealed. I used to walk through it watching moving figures at the far end floating along like tiny shadows silhouetted in an unreal way against the wall. I guess that was it. The tunnel seemed, in some vague way, to be a connecting passage between the real and the unreal -- or between the possible, shall I say, and the impossible.
Perhaps I felt that way about it because it was in that tunnel I received such a great lift -- for I was lifted from a little bug infested room into an apartment of utter beauty.
So it was on this morning, after a sleepless night, I felt that only a trip through the tunnel could find a small expression of the deep feelings and thoughts that book had stirred up in me.
I left a little early to give myself plenty of time to go through the tunnel without hurrying too fast. I knew people were dismayed and depressed at the necessity of going through it. I was elated. I loved it. There could not have been any possible reason for me feeling as I did about it except the thing I had experienced just after my arrival in the city. Yet when my feet seemed to be extra light I usually took the time to go through it.
I was about one third of the way through, going toward Hill street, when a truck came roaring down upon me, stirring up the dust. A cinder, a stone, a hunk of dirt flew into my eye with stinging agony. I closed my eyes momentarily as I ploughed blindly on.
And then in an instant the pain was gone. As suddenly as it had come it was gone. I opened my eyes in relief --
I was not in the tunnel! I spun around to look behind me for it! It just wasn't!
I was in a great hall! It was filled with light -- exquisite, living light, brilliant, quiet, with an "out-of-this-world" peace about it. What had happened I couldn't imagine. A moment before I had been in that tunnel that stretched for three long city blocks between Hope and Hill streets. Now I was in a place I had never before been in. I looked down at myself. I was clothed as I had been -- my bag was in my hand -- and the book -- Annalee Skarin's precious book, Ye Are Gods, was still tucked safely under my arm.
I glanced up to see someone coming toward me -- someone -- and then a cry of joy escaped my lips, "Oh, Ronnie! Ronnie! Darling, I'm dead! I'm dead! How wonderful! How wonderful!"
"No. Christine, you are not dead. You are very much alive!"
"Yes, I know -- but the truck -- it must have hit me --"
"No, the truck never touched you, dear," and he smiled in such a tender, amused way, and with such gentle love I had to shake the tears out of my eyes.
"Tell me about it!" I cried; "Oh, Ronnie, tell me all about it."
"First give me the book. It must be returned to Martha. She is waiting for it -- and it is what she needs."
"Then the book IS true! IT IS true! I knew it had to be! I knew it!" I thrilled exultantly.
"Yes, Christine, it is true. That book was written by the very finger of God. All of the forces of evil have risen to fight it -- to destroy the sacred message it contains. All the forces of darkness are seeking to submerge it. But you never doubted it. How wonderful of you, Christine! It is your not doubting that has made you become a part of it. Later you will meet Annalee and she will assist you in writing the things that are yours to tell."
"How marvelous!" I exclaimed. "How very marvelous! I would rather meet Annalee Skarin than anyone else I can think of, except you, Ronnie."
"My Christine, my precious Christine. How very proud I am of you."
"You proud of me?" I gasped in surprise.
"Of course, my dear! You've overcome the darkness -- and when you spoke to me across the desert that night the whole universe gave ear. Your words will live forever. My precious, Christine."
"Then I can stay? We can go on together?" I cried eagerly. For from the beginning I had had an inner feeling that I was going to have to return to earth, or to the daily routine of mortal living.
"Not yet, Christine. Not yet. You and I belong -- but for a little while our assignments will be on different planes. You still have your body."
"I do?" I asked surprised. "Then what am I doing here? How did I get here?"
"You rent the veil of unbelief! But come, dear! They are waiting for you."
"Who?"
"The great Brotherhood of Light -- The Assembly, or Church of the Firstborn -- The Noble and great ones whom God has reserved unto Himself, which the world knows not of -- the glorious Sons of God -- those who have truly been born again, not of words and speeches and theories -- but of the Spirit of the Almighty."
Ronnie took me to a great door which opened at our approach.
"Enter, darling. I shall see you again."
I reached out my hand to stop him but he was already moving away. And immediately I was ushered into the great assembly.
The place, room, temple, assembly room, whatever it is called, was like nothing I had ever beheld. It was immense in its unbelievable expanse and majesty. I know the description is trite and meaningless, but there are no words in any language to describe it.
There was music -- music that vibrated to the song that had been developing in my soul, only more glorious, more triumphant, more divine. My melody was but a faint awakening echo of that heavenly song of universal triumph. It wasn't just sound. There were no words with it. It was a vibration of power so alive, so glorified it could be felt and seen. It was light -- the great light of Almighty God as it flowed out from the very bosom of eternity to create, to redeem, to make alive, to uplift, and exalt and glorify. It was the great divine Light of Christ, the very power of existence and creation and life.
I had called that song the song of gratitude. It was that. It had been my "Thank You" prayer of such loving devotion, such deep gratitude that every blessing had multiplied an hundred-fold almost automatically. As my gratitude had increased my blessings increased. It was the complete fulfillment of multiplying and replenishing every blessing on the earth. It was more, it was the power that would transmute tragedy into joy, failure into success, loss into blessings -- darkness into Light. The law of "thanks-giving" and gratitude is the divine law of multiplication. It is the law of bringing-forth, of creation, of increase. As it poured into my being in its complete fullness I realized the purpose and the power of such infinite harmony. It is a song of love and devotion, of praise and exaltation, of gratitude and thanks that can clothe one in complete glory. It is the Celestial symphony of the Universe. It is the "New Song" that is not learned in words, but which is felt and released from the very center of the soul. It is divine, perfected love. It is developed from within by being grateful for every little blessing received -- and those little blessings begin to multiply.
That stupendous room, if it can possibly be called by such a name, was circular in its immense dimension of breathtaking grandeur. There were rows upon rows of individuals seated within the ever-expanding circle. Only the center, twenty-foot space, was open and unoccupied, except for one person. The floor seemed to be of glass, or pure crystal, or perhaps one large, perfect diamond, for it reflected lights and colors with sparkling brilliance.
The individual standing in the center welcomed me forward, down one of the many aisles that led from the great doors in the outer walls to the center of the assembly room, or to that twenty-foot-circular, open space. It is most difficult to give descriptions for no language of the earth has the power of expression needed to impart the full information of Celestial grandeur.
All I can say is that the individual presiding over that particular assembly was glory personified. Love and light seemed actually to flow from his being, his robes, his eyes, his very finger tips. I could not stand in such a place, before such hallowed ones. I sank down upon my knees and bowed my head in profound reverence washed in tears.
"Arise, Christine! And welcome! We have been waiting for you, dear sister!" Then it was as though I heard, or rather felt, every voice in that vast assembly whisper softly and with such infinite tender love, "Welcome, dear sister." I had the feeling suddenly as though I knew each and every individual in that divine assembly, as though I were clasping their hands and they mine. Every trace of self-consciousness vanished and I stood straight, while a great light seemed to pour itself over me and through me.
"The whole heavens are rejoicing over you, Christine, for you have passed through the veil of unbelief."
"The veil of unbelief?" I repeated, for I recalled Ronnie saying the same thing, and I desired to know the meaning of the words.
"Yes, the veil of unbelief. It is only this veil of unbelief that shuts mankind out from us.
"That veil has grown more solid than steel, or concrete, or marble, or any physical substance in existence. Its density has increased with the ages. It is built from the very hardness of men's hearts, which hardness is harder than any other substance in the entire universe. It is re-inforced with the blindness of their minds and is woven of gross wickedness, for a completely hardened heart is one of the most wicked conditions possible to attain. It is often caused by minds that will not see. This condition does not belong just to criminals, often their hearts are more softened than one who considers himself a saint. To be able to believe all things makes all things possible.
"The overcoming of unbelief is accomplished most readily by those who will offer their broken hearts upon the altar of God, without rebellion, bitterness or self-pity for it must be offered with a love and devotion that truly desires God's will to be accomplished above everything else. Therefore, it becomes a dedication of thanks, or praise, or divine love that can melt the heart completely and thus the veil can be rent by any on the earth who only perfect the gift of divine love. It is this offering of a broken heart, mingled with melting, inner tenderness that overcomes the unbelief and can rend the veil."
"Millions on the earth are suffering from heartbreak," I ventured.
"Yes, Christine, but they are mis-using their greatest instrument of divine glory. Instead of offering their heartbreak to God in praise and thanksgiving for the very power it contains, and truly desiring the heartbreak to continue, if it be His will, they harden their hearts even more, thus increasing the scales upon their eyes, the darkness in their souls and the great veil becomes continually more impenetrable.
"Glory to those who can rend this veil! Glory be to them!" And I felt it echoed and breathed out in infinite love by the multitude.
"We cannot rend that veil. It is constructed of mortal vibrations and only man can rend it. Each individual must rend it for himself. And each individual who does rend it makes it easier for those who follow. That is why the heavens rejoice over you, Christine. You finally took your heartbreak and offered it to God without restrictions, and the very power and weight of your burden, when thus transmuted could rend the veil for you. You let your heart become softened, instead of hardened by the experience, therefore you could learn to believe, without question, without doubt. It is heartbreak that causes the hard heart to crack, or open -- and that opening can be used for such unspeakable power and advancement as is overwhelming in its full manifestation -- or that opening can be immediately reinforced, thus sealing in the sorrow and shriveling the very fibres of the soul. It is up to each individual how he reacts to it. The unspeakable power of God can be his to use, or the bitterness of hell can enfold him forever in its darkness.
"How beautiful! How beautiful it is to know such things!" I cried, filled with the marvel and the wonder of the very simplicity of it.
"Yes, it is beautiful! And for you, Christine, the veil is gone forever. You can pass to and fro as the occasion requires.
"There is yet a great work for you to do upon the earth. You are needed there in your tangible, mortal form. Your work will be varied according to the needs of men. You will also be privileged to write a partial account of your experience, the first to be given such an assignment. If you need help, Annalee will help you."
He ceased speaking and I glanced at the multitude surrounding me. I felt their love pouring out to me. I felt that I knew each and every one of them -- that our hearts blended as one, in complete, everlasting unity. And I was sure that they each knew me, perhaps better than I knew them. They had watched my progress, had given me of their strength, had directed my way as I had responded to their help.
How one in mortal body could endure the grandeur of the things that were mine to experience I do not know unless my body was quickened by the Spirit of God.
These great ones were clothed, but not in cloth -- in pure, spun light. It was glorified Light, blazing in splendor -- living, eternal Light.
There were both men and women. All were as one in the great love they sent out to enfold all, the earth, mankind, the universe.
And the vibration of that song that had been developing in my heart was their song -- It was the "NEW SONG" -- the very song of God that only the righteous can learn. It had only been a faint echo in my soul, yet that faint echo had become a living power of fulfillment. Then I realized the song is always there, going forth. It is the pure vibration of gratitude and love and praise and pure devotion. And when any heart opens, even a tiny crack to permit it to enter, it helps to open the soul for greater things.
It is when this precious melody of love becomes the living essence of one's being that its power begins to be made manifest. It is the vibration of spontaneous, glorified life itself. It is for all mankind to express and those who only will develop the "ears to hear," which means the power to FEEL, that song will become a power of ever increasing strength. Each individual who develops the power to hear it has the ability to multiply its volume and send it on -- out to touch the burdened hearts of a weary world. That song is a prayer, a spontaneous prayer, pure and undefiled. It is not a "God, give me -- " prayer. And he who sings that song in his soul shall be made glorious. It is a song of great gratitude, born of love. "He who is thankful in all things shall be made glorious, and the things of this earth shall be added unto him an hundred-fold; yea, more."
It was that inner song of praise that had lifted me from the bug-ridden room into one a hundred-fold better. And as one continues to praise and worship and adore that hundred-fold is increased and continues to increase -- forever.
Yet this power of increasing is not its full purpose. This power to multiply blessings is the law upon which it operates.
Its purpose is to open or rather, melt the heart that the veil of unbelief might be conquered. It produces and develops a love so great all things melt before it. It contains a love that forgets self completely and with such infinite tenderness desires only His will to be done. It perfects this complete letting-go of all personal desire -- and then only can the individual become glorious -- for that alone IS His will.
It was then that I understood pain, suffering and heartbreak in their true light -- not as punishment sent by God, but as blessings, for in them were contained the very keys of progress, Light, power and complete dominion. In themselves they were just what they appeared to be, unbearable burdens, but when accepted and enfolded in the faith and love of man they can be transmuted into utter, eternal glory. Man has true dominion over them, if he will but use it. They contain the power that can turn darkness into light, poverty into plenty, heartbreak into ecstasy, pain into joy unspeakable. In man are the keys and the power and the dominion to rule over them, to subdue them -- to glorify them. Or to be destroyed by them.
How simple it is when one understands. Truly the "Mysteries of Godliness" are but the mysteries of the great, simple truth of God's laws. It is the understanding of these laws that is eternal truth -- the truth, which if used will make one forever free.