What happens to babies in heaven?

There is so much to tell of personal experience, which is, after all, the same, practically of every human being. It is impossible to give the details of every day. In Letters from a Spirit, the Spirit author tries to render such accounts, as will convey the best idea of the general state of affairs as far as they come under her observation. One of her strongest traits was the love and care of children, and one of her earliest excursions is to the spirit home of those early gathered into the Kingdom.

I happened to say to my boys that one of my sorrows after they were taken from me was that they would miss their mother. Not all the angels in Heaven could supply that want—or so it seemed to me.

Gerald said, We will go to the place where baby spirits are taken, and let you see.

How we went, I cannot tell, only we were there in an instant and I stood looking down on the Infants' Heaven.

It was encircled with hills that seemed as if they touched the bluest and most cloudless of skies, far off and shining like snow upon their summits, only it was clear light. All down the sides of these came streams of pure water, leaping from point to point in misty cascades—or flowing in sparkling ripples like brooks on earth.

Everywhere flowing water, and the light, which was indescribably soft, yet brilliant, striking on it made the air full of rainbows.

They were in fragments everywhere, the lovely sevenfold chords of light. Looking down into the valley was like a sea of lovely hues, like moonlight, for tenderness, and radiant with colours too lovely for description. Through the midst of the place ran a broad stream of water, silver bright, over a bed of precious stones that flashed like living things.

Everywhere noble clumps of trees, some covered with tiny white bells that swaying lightly, rung in the softest tones, some with glittering leaves and pendant branches like tents of green light.

Flowers beside the streams, among the green grass, climbing, nesting in wreaths, in garlands, in sheets and beds of bloom, of such colours and fragrance as no earthly blossoms ever possessed.

Finest fruits, growing close to the ground, sweet and cool for the baby lips.

Birds, in flocks of gorgeous plumage, shooting in graceful curves like a flash of scarlet—or blue, white—or rose, nestling in the cool places by the streams—or darting and singing a very ecstasy of life.

Dotted about the valley were small white houses, exquisite in the delicacy of form and material, lacelike verandahs carved of pure translucent stone and overrun with vines, loaded with flowers and shaded by trees and shrubbery.

Fountains threw their diamond spray over beds of blossoms, the birds darting through the falling drops. And children! such hosts, and multitudes of them.

The precious little ones were all clad in the purest white, for that is the dress of innocence. Floating on the water, springing in, frolic in and out, knee deep in flowers, covered with wreaths, hands full and heads crowned, chasing the birds who cuddled in their arms one moment and were flying and singing the next—the most indescribably lovely sight that one can ever see.

I stood and gazed until heart and eyes were full. So holy, so happy, so pure, so blessed. I could not bear it. I was so full of joy that I cried like a child, and Gerald said smiling, Dearest Mother, yours are the first tears ever shed here.

But I have to express myself somehow, and must shed tears until I am able to bear such bliss. Why do I try to describe it? Only that I would give some faintest idea of the truth and beauty of this life of ours. A year of earth would not suffice to tell the tithe of the beauty and blessedness of these tiny immortals.

Yet as we lingered, there came through all the music of baby voices and bird songs and sweet sighing of the winds and the chiming of waters, a strain so soft, so sweet, so thrilling with tenderness, a voice from the very inmost of heaven, it seemed to me.

The rainbows flashed and deepened, and the children stopped in their playing and began to sing like the little angels that they are, and all turned their faces one way, lifting up their snow white hands, with oh, such joy and gladness.

And over the hills, the eastern hills, floating through the air came a train of angelic spirits with love lit eyes and every one had a darling baby asleep in her arms. There were a hundred

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or more, I think. They floated down to the ground and the eager little ones gathered around them, and each Spirit knelt down among the flowers and showed them the sleeping child. Some of them woke up in the midst of the smiling children and put up their hands and laughed at the happy faces, but the most of them, looking pale and weak, nestled closer to the angels bosoms and slept on.

They carried them to the cosy white dwellings scattered through the valley, and as they disappeared, the old doubt came back again—These are angels, but they will miss their mothers, and as the thought passed through my mind, I was in a room in one of the houses.

There was a tiny bed with curtains of rosy light falling about it. The couch looked like wool, but it was of flowers, tiny, soft and rose colour.

The little one was just laid down, and the angel stooping over and arranging it began to croon a soft lullaby, and I could but look at her.

If I should say she was a perfect dream of beauty, so ethereal that no language could describe her, would anyone have an idea of her?

The child began to stir, as if to waken, and still gazing at her, I saw her changing. In a moment, there stood by the bed, a sweet, sorrowful, middle aged woman with a coloured dress, linen collar and white apron. 

The baby awoke, opened his eyes, and held up his arms, and cooed at her, and all at once, it came to me that the angel had changed into the very likeness of  the child's mother that he might not be distressed at a stranger.

And the next I knew, I was singing at the top of  my voice, Oh the depth of the riches of the goodness of God. How unsearchable are His mercies and His love past finding out. Of Him and through Him and to Him are all things to whom be glory forever, and the tears were simply streaming.

Afterward, when we were at home, and oh how blessed it is to be in one's own home, I had to enquire about the babies who had friends here before they came. In case there are those of the same blood—or spirit, which is the same thing, they are cared for by those friends—or relatives.

For instance, Aunty took care of her own, and afterward of my two boys until Grandma arrived. Then she went to the angelic society to which she belonged, and which is the same as that to which I belong, only I have not got there yet, and she has.

But until this use was fulfilled, she only went at times, and then returned to those who needed her in this Spirit world. The children are often taken to one of the places such as I went to—there are many of them—so that they enjoy the other little ones and are taught by association with them.

Where all is so full of love, it does not seem as if  one's own could love any more than angels do. I do not know as they do, but there is a sympathy that comes of having the same nature that draws one nearer than to strangers.

Letters from a Spirit [Unknown]