Quote# 140702

Since a child, in the spirit, I have been to this Second Heavens
many times without knowing what it was. It is a dismal place, lacking
in any joy or life. The oppression of lost hope fills the wind torn
atmosphere until it chokes out the very life. The fallen angels move
about sluggishly, shuffling their steps as they go, heads hung down
and their arms listless at their sides. They moved as if the weight
Of their hopelessness pulls them down by some sort Of emotional
gravitational pull of depression and oppression. Even though they
are spirit they retain their appearance before the fall, but they are
gray in color with only a hint of their former color and glory.
They live in small cubicles, which look very much like bland
cement but are made out of a material that appears to be somewhat
like storm clouds. At one point, in my childhood, they had given
me one Of these cubicles, promising me that I could in time live
with them. In my unending misery from the burgeoning vision they
forced on me, I actually looked forward to living in this place where
everything was so featureless, unexciting and visually uneventful. I
so desperately wanted an end to the things they tormented me with
night and day. .. that I faced alone because no one else ever saw those
things. I could not even tell anyone of the things I saw. How many
people do we lock away in institutions because they see those same
things? Thinking about that even now breaks my heart and causes it
to weep for their unrecognized and continuing torment.
These fallen angels huddle in these indistinguishable abodes
with a deep sense Of desperation and hopelessness. These cubicles
are without number, stretching forth across millions of miles like
endless, faceless tenements, lacking any possible warmth and life.
Everything in this place is made up of the subtlest shades of black on
black, dark gray on dark gray, the slight hues seen only by the most
discriminating eye. It took me years before I could distinguish the
subtleties of color residing here. Without knowing what this place
was, I called it Grayland, and it was a place that soon occupied my
nightmares and daymares alike.
I have been to their conference halls, listened to their discus-
sions and plans, and partook in their daily lives as much as possible.
I have been to their war room—a massive hall that stretches for
miles. In this hall, there were thousands upon thousands of fallen
angels—slips Of gray forms—flitting in and out as they received
orders and gave reports. There was a constant flow Of activity here,
and as the ages wore on, the activity increased, reaching a level of
almost critical desperation as they were losing the war and the close
of this age was at hand.
I was sent to this place once with no option of leaving any time
I wanted. I walked into my bedroom after a church meeting, and
the Lord verbally said to me, "You have a choice. You can either
choose Me or you can choose hell." Before I could even answer, I
was sent to hell for eight hours...long enough to decide I did not
like it. The most terrible aspect of this time, unlike being able to
go there many times earlier, was that I was unable to leave. I was a
prisoner and the screaming torment of the other inmates was horri-
fyingly deafening. Finally, I could move my natural lips, and I cried
out the only name that counts, "Jesus!" Instantly I was back in my
bedroom. I pushed myself up from my bed and, before I reached the
door, I was baptized with the Holy Spirit, remaining wrecked and
drunk for two weeks.


Jessica Jones, Ask for the Ancient Paths (book) 8 Comments [10/1/2018 6:48:17 AM]
Fundie Index: 3
Submitted By: Denizen