Imagine an unborn child being told, while still enclosed within the walls of the womb—his entire earth and sky, the only world he has ever known—that his existence there is temporary, and that one day he will inevitably leave it for another world.
A world of air and open skies, of sun, moon, and stars; of trees and seas; of human beings, birds, animals, and countless other things he has never seen and perhaps does not even possess the capacity to imagine. After all, how could he truly conceive of something his eyes have never witnessed and his senses have never experienced?
Whether he believed the one who told him or rejected it, the truth would remain unchanged.
Days or months would pass, and then the moment would come—a moment he could neither delay nor escape. The womb would begin to contract, the walls of the only world he had ever known would tighten around him, and he would be pushed toward the unknown.
Then, suddenly, he would find himself outside everything he had ever known—in the very world he had once been told about.
A sky above him. Air filling his lungs. Light he had never known. Sounds, colors, faces, and realities whose true nature he could never have imagined from within the womb.
What had once been unseen would now stand before him as reality.
Even if he had not believed in the existence of this world before seeing it, he would not yet face judgment for that disbelief. He has emerged from the womb into a realm where there is still time to choose, to act, and to respond.
But then the story repeats itself—on a far greater scale.
Once the human being settles into this world and becomes accustomed to its earth and sky, just as the unborn child became accustomed to the walls of the womb, he is told once again:
Your existence here, too, is temporary.
Just as you once left the world of the womb for a world you could not see, one day you will leave this world for another realm you cannot yet see—a realm in which the time for deeds has ended, and in which judgment and recompense await for what you have sent ahead during this life.
A person may believe, or he may deny. He may find it difficult to accept what his eyes cannot see, just as an unborn child could never have imagined the open sky while enclosed within the womb.
But neither belief nor denial changes the reality itself.
The womb was not the final home.
And neither is this world.
Just as birth marked the end of one world and the beginning of another, death will mark the end of this stage and the beginning of another.
But there is one profound difference:
The first transition brought you into the realm of deeds.
The final transition takes you into the realm of recompense.
Here, you can still believe and act. You can repent and return. You can make amends for what has passed.
But there, the time for choosing will have ended, and what remains will be the consequence of what you sent ahead—and above all is the mercy of God.
So perhaps the real question is not:
Can I imagine the Hereafter?
The unborn child could not have imagined this world either.
The real question is:
What have you prepared for the realm upon which your eyes will open when they finally close to this world?
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