Letting Go And Letting God – Part 3.


From the Desk of George Barnard – January 26, 2009.

There were a few events during three time periods (some years, then decades apart), that were strangely interconnected. During the first time period, I regularly misbehaved by making fun of someone. The second event frightened and embarrassed ‘the living daylights’ out of me. The third event was a routine healing of a kind – routine, if being transported halfway across the world by your Midwayer Friends can be called routine.

Beyond much doubt, it proved to me that ‘the universe’ knows precisely what will happen long-term, has a great memory, has an ideal plan, also, and sets about teaching us worthwhile things. This is a further episode . . . of letting go but not letting God.

From 1982 until 1994 I lived on, and worked from, my 170-plus-acre farm. A sizeable watercourse ran through the front of the property. The best place – a hill beyond that watercourse – had been selected for the homestead. It presented a wonderful view, but it also required for me to build a bridge with a 65’ span, and for which I needed to ‘set aside’ at least three months to construct it.

The whole bridge project would weigh about 75 tons when completed. It was running about one week over the allocated time, with just one day’s work to be done, when I was involved in a serious accident. A few tons of bridge decking slid from the delivery truck and pinned me to the ground. It also smashed my right leg, although, fortunately without the shattered bone piercing the skin.

Neighbors were soon at hand, and they tried to pull me out of that lumber jumble. I calmly told them to one-by-one take the decking pieces off me, and to not drag me from under that heap, which would have done even more damage. I wondered if I should trigger self hypnosis, then decided I must have already done so, because I felt no pain. They tried to set me up on my feet, but I told them to tie my broken leg to my left leg, bring my station wagon around, and slide me into the back on a heavy board.

At last, after the nervous driver of my vehicle first lost his way, then finally remembered where the hospital was located, I was rolled into the casualty department. I could relax at last. I felt great! I briefly viewed my body from above, and decided I did not need it anymore. It was useful while it lasted, but now I was going home, slowly. I was on my way, feeling terrific! Only a peculiar buzzing in my right ear was irritating me somewhat.

The buzzing grew a little louder. It might be someone’s voice, I considered! It was a voice! It was a woman’s voice, getting louder and louder! She was screaming profanities into my ear! She was calling me all kinds of horrible names for my being ‘on my way to heaven!’ I opened my eyes and looked into the face of a pretty young nurse. This was not an angel, though, I was sure. Angels would not call me a dirt bag and much worse.

I smiled at her. “What might be your name, Kiddo?” I just had to ask.
“Julie,” she told me.
“What’s your date of birth, Julie?”
She told me. I calculated, and informed her, “You are a 22 master number. You should be in charge of this place!”

“I damned-well am in charge of this place!” And with another long string of awful names for me, she added, “I hate it when people die on my shift! I hate it! Don’t you dare! I’ll be very angry with you if you don’t stay with us!”

Moments earlier, she had gone to look for the hospital’s X-ray technician, but the Midwayers had sent her right back to her casualty department, for I was letting go, and the 1,111 Secondary Midwayers didn’t want to ‘let God.’

In retrospect, but for my being incapacitated for a prolonged space of time, there would not have been an 11:11 Progress Group, an 11:11 List, or a team of more than 70 active 11:11 members. I would still be thriving on the frequent adrenaline rushes of reorganizing near-bankrupt companies.

The universe does have a plan.

And it’s just a small thought from George Barnard.

© 11:11 Progress Group.
Toujours au Service de Michael.

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