What spiritual treasures do you bring? And my hands were empty! That’s when he told me: What was the point in your owning two condos, houses, and office buildings? You thought yourself a successful professional. You couldn’t even bring the dust off of one of those bricks here. What did you do with the talents I gave you? Talents, I thought. You had a mission. The mission to defend the kingdom of love, the Kingdom of God. I had forgotten I had a soul so I could hardly remember I had talents, that I was the merciful hands of God. Much less that all the good I didn’t make, hurt the Lord. Do you want to know what the Lord kept on asking me? About lack of love and charity. That’s when He told me about my spiritual death. I was alive, but dead. If you could have seen what spiritual death is, it’s like a soul that hates. Like a terribly sour and fastidious soul that injures everyone, full of sin. I could see my soul on the outside, smelling well, with good clothes on, but my stench on the inside, living deep in the abyss. No wonder I was so depressed and sour! And he told me: Your spiritual death began when you stopped hurting for your brothers!? I was warning you by showing you their plight everywhere. When you saw media coverage on murders, abductions, refugee situations, and with your tongue you said, on the outside, poor people, how sad?, but you didn’t really hurt for them. You felt nothing in your heart. Sin made your heart into a heart of stone. You can imagine my deep sorrow when my book closed. I had deep sorrow with God my Father for having behaved like that because, despite all my sins, despite all my filth, and all my indifference and all my horrible feelings, the Lord always, up until the last instant, searched for me. He would always send me instruments, people, He would talk to me, He would yell at me, He would take things away from me to seek me. He looked for me up until the very end. God is always begging? at each one of us to convert. I couldn't accuse Him of condemning me! Of course not. Out of my free will, I chose my father, and my father was not God. I chose Satan, he was my father. When that book closed, I noticed I was heading down into a pit with a door at its bottom. And as I’m heading there, I started calling out to all the saints so they would save me. You have no idea how many saints I remembered, being such a bad Catholic. I thought I could ask for help from Saint Isidore or Saint Francis of Assisi. When I ran out of saints, the same silence remained. I felt great emptiness and hurt. I thought everyone back on earth was probably thinking I had died a saint, perhaps even waiting eagerly to ask for my intercession. And look! Where was I headed? I lifted my eyes and they met the eyes of my mom. With intense pain I cried out to her...
...To be continued
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