July 8, 1958. I prepare for a most momentous and significant event. Tomorrow I undergo a transition—an ascension, so to speak. I shall leave my dwelling place, which for nine months has been my home, intimate, warm, and pleasant. Yet the maternal womb grew ever more confined, and from this I understood that the final time was drawing near...
Of course, I knew neither the day nor the hour of my passage from darkness into wondrous light. There, above, in mother's mind, all was reckoned, but no revelation was sent down to me; therefore, I had to divine the final time by certain signs, as through darkened glass—by divination. I knew with certainty that birth would come, and I awaited it with anxiety. Why with anxiety? First, I had grown accustomed to my dwelling. On one hand, it had become my native home; on the other, comfort was diminishing, and I longed already for deliverance.
The unknown life beyond the womb troubled me: what would it be like there? They say it is good, but no one has ever returned from there. Second, I must prepare for pain—how long would it last? Would the transition be painful or not so much? And third? Third—I myself do not know; all that is new frightens and troubles... But there is no escape. The final time shall be marked by earthquakes, floods, and sickness.
So I began to tremble—how it seized me, how it seized me, how it wracked me in convulsions, yet I thought: my end has come, is this what the beginning of affliction feels like? Then it released me: so good, so good. But I had no sooner rested than it came again. "I wonder," I think in the intervals, "how long will this continue? Are these torments worth it to come into the light? Perhaps I should abandon this new life and continue the old way." Scarcely had I thought this when someone thrust me directly into a tunnel. Terrible pain, tightness, darkness. But suddenly something cut across my eyes—light at the end of the tunnel! Pain from the light and joy at once, a feeling of helplessness, as though I were falling...
But then strong and gentle angelic hands—the hands of the midwife—caught me, lifted me up, and showed me to mother, saying: "Well, hello there, little one, welcome to your new life. How he cries! He'll surely be a preacher." I understood little of her words, and her final one was quite unknown to me. I continued to cry until they brought me to mother's breast, and only then did I understand that new life is not only pain—it is mother's joyful eyes, her gentle hands, that familiar voice which I seemed to have heard before, that warm, delicious "heavenly" milk that no one gave me in my former life. It is truly, truly worth enduring pain and sorrow to enter into new life! What are nine months compared to seventy or eighty years of life? (At last "The Revelation" was revealed to me—it turns out it is not so complicated after all!)
Thus came July 9, 1958—the day of my birth!
Now, when my dwelling grows ever more confined and less comfortable, when various contractions and convulsions begin to torment me—it dawns upon me that the revelation approaches: the final time is at hand, and I must prepare for transition. The day and hour I know not, of course, but I can say with certainty that far less time remains than has already been lived...
The remaining parallels, I trust, are obvious. I persuade myself not to fear, because strong and gentle angelic hands shall catch my soul and bring me to the breast of Christ, and eternal bliss shall commence in the Kingdom of Heaven. Whether suffering is worth it for this—decide for yourselves!
