Editor of The Cauldron: During the street car strike in Denver in 1919, I
was a reporter on the _Times_. On the night when the strikers and “Black
Jack” Jerome’s “breakers” met in deadly conflict, I was assigned to the
East Denver barns, in which Jerome’s men were fortified.
Toward midnight, the strikers stormed _en masse_ and, during the melée,
I dropped with a bullet in my chest. Regaining consciousness, I found
myself in the City Hospital. Kneeling beside my bed was my wife—Estelle.
I tried to move.
“Lie still, dear,” she said, rising. “You must keep very quiet. They are
going to probe for the bullet.”
Upon reaching the operating room, the ether instantly choked me
into unconsciousness. Then occurred the strangest thing I have ever
experienced. I seemed suddenly transported into a great hall, with tall,
shining pillars. All around me were people clothed in white. From afar
came the sound of soft music.
But what attracted me was a raised section at one end on which sat a
benevolent-looking old gentleman. In his eyes there seemed to be all the
sorrow and suffering of a wicked world’s countless centuries. He beckoned
to me. When I had come before him he spoke, and in his voice there was
the golden ring of perfectly tuned chimes.
“My son,” he said, “you have been brought to judgment. At present you are
no longer a part of the earth’s sphere. Back there science is fighting
for your life. Whether science succeeds is determined by this court of
justice. What have you to say for yourself?”
I trembled and became afraid. Where was I? Was I dead and in some
spiritual sphere far removed from the earth?
Then I spoke. I recall, distinctly, that I rambled on at great length,
attempting to make a good impression. As I spoke he listened intently,
occasionally nodding his head slowly and sadly.
When I finished, he resumed:
“Words and actions mean nothing here,” he said. “In passing judgment we
consider only motives. They are everything. Remember that. It is the
motives behind all actions that are important.”
So saying, he turned to an aged man, who was writing in a book, and
asked: “Any prayers?”
“Yes, a young woman kneels at his bed.”
“You shall return to earthly existence for a time then,” the judge said,
raising his hands. “Heed well my words.”
Then I saw a great light swell from some invisible source, and, as I
looked, there seemed to be ragged scars in his palms that ran red.
When finally I opened my eyes I was again in my little bed, with Estelle
and the doctor standing by. Eventually I recovered from my serious wound.
The weird vision that I had while on the operating table, though, has
always been a great mystery to me. Dreams are nothing unusual for me, but
this was so entirely different from anything that I have ever experienced
before! I have spoken of it many times and to many people. They have not
laughed, but have listened in astonishment.
What was it, I wonder? Was it the effect of the anesthetic upon my
weakened system? Was it the wild distortion of my brain or, when life is
flickering on the brink of eternity, are we actually brought face to face
with our Creator? Will this question ever be answered in life? I wonder!