One day, not too long after my return from my visit into the higher realms I felt an urgent call of heartbreak coming from across the miles.
In following it I found myself in a deep, Utah canyon, surrounded by high, towering peaks. Majestic crags reached their fingers to the sky. A rushing stream gurgled with spontaneous life as it leaped in exultant laughter over each boulder and stone. Then suddenly it grew hushed and still as an echo of a sob rose from its teary depths. The flowers along its bank bowed their heads in sadness. The tall pines seemed to bow down toward the earth in distressed sorrow as an audible sigh escaped from them. The gigantic mountains stood quivering in pain. The very air grew hushed and still awed by a grief so great.
And then I saw him -- a man lying flat upon a mossy bank. His hands dug deep into the soil in convulsive heart rending spasms of anguish. Great heartbreaking sobs shook his being with a sorrow too deep for eyes to witness.
Children can cry and it is but for a moment and will pass.
Women weep and their weeping is an outlet of relief for either joy or sorrow.
But when a strong man weeps with deep, abandoned despair the earth itself groans under the impact of his grief. It shakes the world and rushes on to jolt the universe, and all things stand still and awed and quivering in silence before it. It crumbles the walls beyond the thoughts of men, rends the very atmosphere, and time itself stands still.
This sorrow that is deeper than all meaning is not the weak, shameful, craven sorrow of self-pity. It is not the passing disappointment of a fancy. It is not a temporary, momentary grief. This sorrow is deeper than life itself, beyond existence, as encompassing as eternity. This was the sorrow of the man who threw aside mortality, and standing as a son of God upon the very threshold of eternity laid bare his soul in a grief that demanded a hearing. The man himself was not aware of the great effect nor power of his despair. He could not possibly know how far-reaching and filled with power was that cry of his soul, for that was what it actually was, though he knew it not. Such infinite sorrow receives instant recognition -- and I was sent, not that I could really do much about it, except respond in love and enfold him in Light -- for I too was to learn a lesson from the experience.
In all my life I had never witnessed such utter anguish, such heartbroken grief, such sobbing suffering. I stood completely awed and trembling before it. I was helpless in the dismay of it, and calling out across the universe told of my need and my inadequacy. I could not even imagine how to begin to give comfort for such grief, let alone justify my intrusion upon it for it was between this man and God.
Then suddenly Annalee Skarin stood beside me. I had met her before. She stood silent for a moment with hand uplifted, and I saw that man's grief registered in her own eyes. It was as though her eyes contained all the suffering of the ages, the heartbreaks of the world, the unspeakable pain of eternities, the sorrows of the entire earth. And I could not bear to look. I turned away and wept as I had never wept before, not even when I heard that Ronnie had been slain. This was a grief deeper than any personal grief. It was the heartaches of all the world gathered into one. That man's grief was Annalee's, it was also mine, but in a lesser degree, though at the time I knew not why. Such grief as this belonged to God for the earth itself could not contain it.
And then there was a great light -- and Christ stood there -- and kneeling down beside that shaking form He placed His hand upon it -- and the weeping slowly stopped -- the great, rending sobs decreased in intensity and finally all was still -- and I heard a blessing given that the earth could not contain -- a blessing of promise, of glory, of power, of such magnitude that if the physical ears of the man had heard he would have been consumed. But the ears of his soul heard and a deep peace came and with it renewed strength and power.
Then Christ sending an unspoken message to us in love and understanding, smiled and was gone.
Annalee and I withdrew and waited by his car parked in a dense little grove by the winding, mountain road. And time picked itself up and sped upon its way. The stream began to sing again in deep relief. The trees lifted up their branches even higher than before in deep murmurs of gratitude. The very mountains relaxed as the tension vanished, and that whole valley, hallowed by Divinity, whispered an anthem of loving praise.
The man at last arose, and walking down to the stream dipped his hands in it to wash off the dirt that had gathered upon his fingers and packed under his nails as they had dug into the soil in his convulsive, unbearable anguish of grief and agony. He cleansed his hands thoroughly then washed his face and bathed his swollen eyes. He lay down upon his stomach and drank from the running stream. Then rising slowly he lifted his eyes above the mountains and whispered reverently, "Thy will, Oh God, not mine be done, only in some way, please let this be turned to your glory. And be Thou my Judge. Yes, dear God, judge me not according to the judgments of men, but for what is in my heart and for my great love of Thee. I love Thee so!"
Then slowly, very slowly, as if in deep meditation, he came toward his car.
When he finally saw us it was with a feeling of annoyance. He would have retreated but it was too late. He was not only annoyed at our being there but for a moment dismayed at the thought that we might have seen his grief.
Annalee disarmed him in an instant, saying cheerfully, "We hoped the owner of this car would show up before too long." As she spoke there was a smile so warm and a twinkle in her eyes so friendly the man's resentment vanished. The great sorrow she had felt over his suffering had disappeared and I knew that I had been given the sacred privilege of looking deep into the souls of two of God's children -- and into the soul of things.
"What's the matter? Did you two get stranded?" asked the man gently.
"It looks that way. Could we ride back to town with you?" I asked.
"Where is your car? Could I help you get it?"
"Oh," I smiled; "that won't be necessary."
"Cars aren't always dependable on these mountain roads. Our transportation is higher up and we can get it later," volunteered Annalee.
"You sure I can't bring it down?"
"Oh no. Don't give it another thought. If we can ride with you we can pick up our transportation later."
We talked casually for the first mile or so, then Annalee remarked; "Have you read the book, 'Ye Are Gods?' It seems to have caused a lot of disturbance here."
He turned and looked at her in a startled way, saying rather cautiously, "Why yes, I've read it. Why?
"What do you think of it?"
"It can no longer hurt to tell what I think of it," he stated grimly, setting his jaw. "I think it is wonderful! I've read it again and again. There was never another book like it. I'd give my life just for the privilege of believing in anything so beautiful."
"Annalee Skarin told me she was excommunicated from her church for daring to write it," said Annalee gently.
"You knew her then? I would surely like to meet her sometime." The last was spoken with such child-like wistfulness. "She came from Buffalo, New York to visit here in Salt Lake City and it was while she was here she disappeared. That was two years ago. No one has seen her since. Her husband disappeared a short time later."
"You will meet them both before too long, I am sure," promised Annalee. "She would be so proud to know you. She told me that when she was excommunicated that one man was her accuser, her prosecutor, her judge and her jury. That he twisted the things she had written in the book, called it wicked and condemned her for daring to write a book mostly on the grounds that she was an obscure person. If he had written it, or someone else in high places it would have been acceptable, but her obscurity condemned it. He tried to coerce her into recalling it. But how could she when God had commanded her to write it. She knew that the book had been written in flaming glory with a pen dipped in heaven. She always maintained that she could not have written that book in a million years. She was only the humble scribe. Of course she was utterly condemned."
"That is the way we are all treated here who believe in it. The persecution is very great in this area. If it were possible in this day an inquisition would be started and our homes searched for these books -- and they would all be burned. It is almost that bad anyway," said the man with infinite sorrow in his voice.
"I understand that in the case of Annalee there was an assembly of men who gathered to witness that shameful proceeding they called justice. That assembly had no voice whatsoever in the trial, nor in the decision. They were men who had never read the book, who knew nothing of its contents, who, without exception had never before in their lives either seen or talked with Annalee before because she had been living in New York for years and had just arrived in the city. And most of those men were so flattered at being called into such an assembly and so overwhelmingly awed by that presiding authority they could not even think."
"Yes, it must have been terrible for her."
"She told me that her heart broke. She was filled with such inconsolable sorrow she felt she could never be comforted. Her very life seemed to crumble into ashes and dust around her. It seems she had given her life to her church, her time, her talents, her strength, a tenth of her income, and for a time, even half of all she earned. She had taught classes for years, headed organizations, filled missions and had never received a dime, or for that matter, even a 'thank you' for her service. It had been her very life. And of course it was through such a complete, self-sacrificing service that the very heavens were opened and light began to be poured out upon her. Her book was written in fire and tears. She said she wept almost from beginning to end with the glory of it and it was as though she were enfolded in flames of fire as light poured down through her and out upon the pages in the typewriter. That marvelous book was written in one month and no one ever felt more awed or humble about it than Annalee. It was because she stepped beyond those in charge, who only seemed to be blocking the way, that she was cast out. The shame of her trial is written on the archives of eternity along with all such shameful trials which have blackened the records of time.
"She said her grief was impossible to bear until she weighed it carefully against the truth God had revealed. She had felt that it would have been a relief to have been stoned to death for the privilege of believing a God of such dynamic power, and in the promises He had made. She was sure that burning at the stake could have been a divine privilege -- but being cast out of her church was the great, seemingly impossible sacrifice. Her life would have been so easy to have given in comparison.
"It was when her grief had spent itself, so I've been told, that a new understanding and power came. And lifting up her heart she prayed, 'Dear God, forgive my sorrow. And now, with all my heart, I thank you, gracious Father, that I had something more precious to me than my life to offer to you for the price of these eternal truths. Thank you, dear God, that I had something as precious and sacred to me as my membership in this church to give."
"Good heavens!" gasped the man when she had finished; "Only the one who wrote a book so great could understand the privilege of such complete suffering and turn it into glory.
"You see, I just went up into that canyon to pour out my heart for having lost my standing in my church because I believe in that book. I just knew I couldn't go on living. My family, my friends have all turned against me. It is almost as though I had leprosy. And, now, thanks to you, I am grateful! How wonderful it is, really. Yes -- it is wonderful to have something more precious than your life to give."
"Yes, isn't it?" I marveled softly, regretting almost that I had not been required to make such a supreme sacrifice because I had belonged to no church.
In that afternoon it was revealed to me the great price that is required to bring truth to the earth. I rejoiced that there are those who are willing to pay such a price for it. I knew that as long as these noble and great ones tread the earth God's power will rule, and eventually triumph over all the bigotry, injustice, pride and narrowed prejudices of men.
Then Annalee said, "I have heard that Annalee was finally told that it was not her trial they held at all, but their own. They had tried themselves as surely as those who had condemned Joan of Arc. And the record of their injustice would stain the earth, as thousands have done since time began, until the earth itself is cleansed. The shame of such mockeries will be completely revealed before the end -- and before the complete cleansing comes."
We were now entering the city, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, tucked in at the foot of the mountains.
We had gone but a few blocks into the city when Annalee said, "Please stop here. This is where we will be leaving you -- and thank you so much for the ride."
"It is I who should thank you. It has been a privilege to have had you with me. It seems almost as though you were directed to me."
"Yes, doesn't it?" I smiled.
"I hope I see you again. Here take my card. It has my telephone number and address. Let me know if you get your car all right."
After he had shaken hands with us he seemed loath to go.
"What are your names?" he asked.
"Mine is Christine Mercie," I volunteered.
"And I am just here for the day, but I shall see you when I come to Salt Lake City again," promised Annalee.
At last the car moved on leaving us standing there.