As the day now approached on which she was to leave this life—a day which you knew, but which we did not—it happened (though I believe it was arranged by your secret ways) that she and I stood alone, leaning in a certain window from which the garden of the house we occupied at Ostia could be seen. Here in this place, removed from the crowd, we were resting in preparation for the voyage after the fatigues of a long journey. We were conversing alone very pleasantly and "forgetting those things which are past, and reaching forward toward those things which are future." We were in the present—and in the presence of Truth (which you are)—discussing together what the eternal life of the saints is like: which eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor has it entered into the heart of man. We opened wide the mouth of our heart, thirsting for those heavenly streams of your fountain, "the fountain of life" which is with you, so that we might be sprinkled with its waters according to our capacity and might in some measure weigh the truth of so profound a mystery.
And when our conversation had brought us to the point where the very highest of physical sense and the most intense illumination of physical light seemed, in comparison with the sweetness of that life to come, not worthy of comparison, nor even of mention, we lifted ourselves with a more ardent love toward the Selfsame, and we gradually passed through all the levels of bodily objects, and even through heaven itself, where the sun and moon and stars shine on the earth. Indeed, we soared higher yet by inward reflection, speaking and marveling at your works. And we came at last to our own minds and went beyond them, so that we might climb as high as that region of unfailing plenty where you feed Israel forever with the food of truth, where life is that Wisdom by whom all things are made, both those that have been and those that are to be. Wisdom is not made, but is as she has been and forever will be; for "to have been" and "to be hereafter" do not apply to her, but only "to be," because she is eternal and "to have been" and "to be hereafter" are not eternal. And while we were thus speaking and straining after her, we just barely touched her with the whole effort of our hearts. Then with a sigh, leaving the first fruits of the Spirit bound to that ecstasy, we returned to the sounds of our own tongue, where the spoken word had both beginning and end. But what is like your Word, our Lord, who remains in himself without becoming old, and "makes all things new"?⁠a
What we said went something like this: "If the tumult of the flesh were silenced for any man; and the phantoms of earth and waters and air were silenced; and the poles were silent as well; indeed, if the very soul grew silent to herself, and went beyond herself by not thinking of herself; if fancies and imaginary revelations were silenced; if every tongue and every sign and every transient thing—for actually if any man could hear them, all these would say, We did not create ourselves, but were created by Him who abides forever'—and if, having uttered this, they too fell silent, having stirred our ears to hear him who created them; and if then he alone spoke, not through them but by himself, so that we might hear his word, not in fleshly tongue or angelic voice, nor sound of thunder, nor the obscurity of a parable, but might hear him—him for whose sake we love these things—if we could hear him without these, as we two now strained ourselves to do, then with rapid thought we might touch on that Eternal Wisdom which abides over all. And if this could be sustained, and other visions of a far different kind were taken away, and this one so ravished and absorbed and enveloped its beholder in these inward joys that his life might be eternally like that one moment of knowledge which we now sighed after—would this not be the reality of the saying, Enter into the joy of your Lord'? But when will such a thing be? Will it not be when we all shall rise again,' and will it not be that all things will be changed'?"
I was expressing some such thought, and if not in this way and in these words, still, Lord, you know that on that day we were talking this way and that this world, with all its joys, seemed cheap to us even as we spoke. Then my mother said: "Son, for my part I no longer take pleasure in anything in this life. Now that my hopes in this world are satisfied, I do not know what more I want here or why I am here. There was indeed one thing for which I wished to stay a little longer in this life, and that was to see you a Catholic Christian before I died. My God has answered this more than abundantly, so that I see you now made his servant and spurning all earthly happiness. What more am I to do here?"