A modern retelling of the “twins in the womb” parable. The spark behind Potter’s Messages — and a reflection on faith, loss, and the promise that this isn’t the end.
This is a modern retelling of the widely shared “twins in the womb” parable — the story that changed how I process loss and ultimately inspired Potter’s Messages.
In the soft darkness of the womb, two souls waited. Their tiny world pulsed with warmth and rhythm — the steady thump of a heartbeat that rocked them to sleep and woke them again. It was safe. Predictable. Complete.
For a long time, they believed this was all there was. Until one whispered, “Do you ever wonder… if there’s something more?” The other replied, “More than this? What could possibly be more than everything?”
“I don’t know,” said the first. “But sometimes I feel… something. A pull. As if this isn’t the end — as if we’re being prepared for another place.”
The second laughed softly. “You always chase mysteries. Look around — this is it. We eat. We grow. We sleep. What more could there be?”
“But think about it,” said the first. “We’ve only ever known this darkness, this warmth, this hum of life. What if beyond these walls there’s light? What if there are sounds and colors we can’t even imagine?”
“That’s impossible,” the second said. “Don't you think if that were true someone would have come back to tell us? No one has ever left and come back. If there is something beyond this place, why can't we see or hear it?”
The first was quiet for a long while, then replied, “Maybe, it isn’t something that can be proven with eyes, ears, or words. Maybe it has to be believed.”
“You're talking about Mother again,” the second said. “But where is she? If she exists, why doesn’t she show herself? Prove she is real?”
“She’s all around us,” the first replied. “We live in her. Every beat we feel, every pulse that sustains us — that’s her.”
“But I don’t see her,” the second argued. “If she’s real, why doesn’t she just speak so we’ll know?”
“Maybe she does,” said the first. “Maybe we’re not yet ready to understand her voice. Maybe it’s too big, too bright for us to perceive. Maybe this whole world is her whisper.”
“You’re imagining things,” the second sighed. “Maybe,” the believer said, “or maybe what we call imagination is the soul remembering what it already knows.”
Time passed. The world that had once seemed infinite began to change. The warmth tightened. The walls pressed closer. What had been peaceful became painful.
“This can’t be happening!” cried the second. “We’re being destroyed!”
The first trembled too, but whispered through the fear, “No… maybe this is not the end. Maybe this is how we begin.”
Light. Sound. Air. Space. Everything they had doubted suddenly surrounded them. A voice — soft, powerful, familiar — welcomed them. They opened their eyes and saw her — radiant, gentle, the presence they had felt but never understood.
The first turned to the other and whispered, “See? She was here all along.”
We are all those children. We question, we doubt, we demand proof — and yet deep within us, something whispers of a truth too vast for words.
We ask: Why has no one come back to tell us what’s next? Why is the next world hidden from our sight? Why must belief rest on what we cannot see?
Perhaps because sight is meant for this world — and faith is meant for the next. Maybe the distance between proof and belief is where faith is born — in that fragile, trembling space between certainty and mystery.
And when the walls of this life begin to press in, perhaps that’s not the end at all — it’s the moment before the light.
This story was where it all began for me — and for Potter’s Messages. In a season of loss, I kept asking the skeptic’s questions. In the quiet, I began to feel what the believer described — the whisper of something bigger than me. It helped me process grief and find faith again — not blind belief, but the gentle conviction that love continues and connection endures.
From that seed, Potter’s Messages was born — a place where love, memory, and voice can live on for the ones we hold dear.
Grief is the proof of deep love — but loss is not the final chapter. Through Potter’s Messages, you can leave words that become a bridge from this life to the next, whispering across time:
“I’m okay. I’m still with you. I’ll be waiting when you arrive.”
These aren’t goodbyes — they’re see you soon. They turn silence into solace, absence into connection, and endings into beginnings. This life is the womb — the sacred space before the light. Speak your love. Record it. Preserve it.
Your story doesn’t end with goodbye — it lives on in the hearts you’ve touched and in the messages you leave behind.
So join us at Potter’s Messages. Give your loved ones permission to believe and find closure. Help them on their own journey to discover peace in the mystery, hope in the unseen, and comfort in knowing that love doesn’t end — it transforms. Because every message you leave behind becomes a light for those still finding their way.
On origins: The “twins in the womb” parable appears in several versions. Many readers encountered it through Henri J. M. Nouwen’s Our Greatest Gift (1994/1995); others credit Wayne Dyer for popularizing similar wording in the mid-1990s. There are also claims of earlier authorship (e.g., Pablo J. Luis Molinero). Because wordings vary, we reference it here as a modern parable with multiple attributions.
For their sake. For your peace. Because love is worth planning for.