Topic: Urantia Midwayers
Group: 11:11 Progress Group
TR: George Barnard
It has been about 41 years since I first became aware of "Spirit Entities" spending time in my home, my clinic, and my factory, even my car. I called them the "11:11 Spirit Guardians". They would awaken me at precisely 11:11 PM, or make me look at my watch or office clock right on 11:11 AM.
But Spirits they are not. Midwayers, as most of you know them, and unlike us mortals, do not have Thought Adjusters.
Not until fully ten years later did I catch sight of the first three Midwayers that became part of my extended family, although some four-and-a-half years prior, my youngest daughter was the successful contact with one of the 1,111, my girl being just over eighteen months of age. At age six she lost sight of that "imaginary playmate", Simone, or MNO-6.
Between 1972 and 1999 the Midwayers were in frequent open visual contact. I had a clinic and we worked mainly with the deeply distressed and suicidal. We were the 11:11 Platoon, part of the Progress Group, but in the US we were referred to as the "Aussie Emergency Unit", not a platoon.
During counseling the Midwayers would only on occasions take over completely, and my well-prepared therapy would go right out of the window, as they applied their much superior form of counseling.
Most of the time I would ‘recognize’ the face of my new patient, precisely what ailed her or him, and do my work based on what had been input by the 1,111 whilst I slept, and for it to surface as intuition or déjà vu when needed.
Not until 1997 did I find a pre-loved Urantia Book to validate all their teachings, but by 1992 I had already begun documenting the various tasks we had been at together in three books.
These are my ‘channeled’ instructions. Loyal Midwayer Chief, "Bzutu" (ABC-22) seated next to me. Primary Midwayer, Andrea and Celestial Artisan, Athena instructing him, and an Entity called, Damalia, responsible for our documentations and many others of this kind.
In a tailor’s shop, on a table of great length, a unique bolt of cloth is unrolled in its entirety. Never before in the history of this universe was there created a woven material of this design. And never again will there be another quite like it. No section of this fabric resembles another, yet its designs are blended and its colors complement each other, from dull to bright, to brilliant, to bright, to dull again, making all of its yardage a coherent whole.
Hesitantly, he lays out his patterns, for as a tailor he is unskilled. He seeks out the brightest patches, knowing almost all of the cloth will go to waste. Three garments are all he will make.
Limited by time, he feels pushed, hunted almost. Deep down, however, he knows that he will be given the time. Above all else, the designs on all parts of each garment must blend. Its scrolls must flow from the collar to the bodice, fuse from the bodice to the sleeves and the designs on the sleeves must merge with the lines on the cuffs.
The amateur tailor is reluctant to put his scissors to the cloth and he knows he has taken on a great task indeed.
‘Am I the cloth?’ he asks, hopeful of an answer.
‘No. The cloth is the life you lead in the mosaic of your time and the colors of the weave are the ups and downs of that life.’
‘I know! The paper pattern. Is that me?’
‘No, George Mathieu. The pattern is the determination with which you arrived in these dimensions. They represent the sum total of your Spirit’s previous experiences.’
‘The finished garments?’ he tries, doubtfully.
‘No, George Barnard. What a dreamer you are! They are the writings. The three books, their chapters logically ordered.’
‘The invisible thread binding all the pieces? It’s got to be! Seriously, you Guys, give us a chance,’ he pleads.
‘Calm down, George. You’re only guessing now. The invisible thread is the fiction content you need. It binds all your experiences together into a useful, intelligible whole.’
‘Those brand-new scissors which will cut the cloth? Am I?’
‘No. They are only the instruments of necessity, which allow the meaningful to be communicated to others. Your pen. Your word processor. The printing press and publishing network. Think, George Mathieu.’
‘Forget it. It’s too hard. I give up,’ he states.
‘Don’t give up! You have no choice at any rate. And giving up was never your plan. It’s not your way. You’re stubborn. We know.’
‘Got it! The hand guiding the needle is that me? Yeah?’
‘The hand is us. All of us! Your Spirit Guardians! Your teachers. Despite the fact you’re not all that bright, George, we stick with you.’
‘Okay then. That leaves only the needle. Is that it? Is that me?’ he mumbles at them.
‘Yes! Hallelujah! You’ve got it at long last. Remember, it is first pushed, then pulled through the fabric. Over and over, stitch by stitch by tiresome stitch.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ he sighs. ‘Pushed and pulled, you call it? Shoved around, is more like it. Bet you Guys all get a kick out of it.’
‘Stay sharp, George. Use that extra eye.’