From the Desk of George Barnard.


Hello all. I am Ann, a new subscriber to the 11:11 Progress Lists. I live in Australia, have a lot to learn about a big blue book a few of you treasure, and I have a story to tell you all. I first sent it to 11:11 in six and a half long pages, and look at it now! You can actually read it! I’m so pleased you chopped it all to bits for me.

I learned a new word on this list… “WatchCare”. That is what I do. I do watchcaring for a living, I always did, and I have never been alone in this ‘watchcaring job’. With me is my Angel Being I can sometimes hear, and only once did I vaguely see him or her. It is probably ‘a she’. My Angel and I look after psychologically traumatized people, and in the past it has been so rewarding, since our work (not mine alone) has given so many the hope to carry on because of what I am made to say to them.

Only God knows what they would have otherwise done to themselves on each of those occasions. Strangely, sometimes God lets me know precisely what it is they would go and do, and it’s not very pretty.


This story is not about unfortunate people. It is about fortunate me.

Quite a few years ago, one weekend, and when I was only 18 years old, my fiancé and I traveled from my town to a place in the mountains called, Jenolan. In Jenolan there are some wonderful caves, and they are among the most beautiful in the world, full of colored stalactites and stalagmites. At the time we didn’t have a car, only a very old motorbike with a wooden sidecar that used to belong to the Police Department. We weren’t then in a position to own anything better than that old motorbike.

For the time it would take for us to travel there, and back again before dark, we would only be able to see one of the big caves, the Orient, the most beautiful, it was said.

My fiancé drove the bike, and I occupied the sidecar.

We had quite a few miles of gravel road to travel to get there, we were a bit late, and going as fast as the winding road would allow us to drive.


We were almost there, with just a quarter of a mile to go, when a great big black Customline ripped around the bend on the wrong side of the road. My fiancé hit the brakes, and of course, the motorbike skidded side on into the Customline – the sidecar foremost.

It was an enormously loud bang that sounded all around the mountains and rang in my ears. The whole motorbike was pretty well totaled, but the sidecar was even worse.

Not one of the many thick wooden planks was left unbroken. The metal cover looked like it had been hit in three separate crashes – one after another – and the sidecar axle was bent in the middle to about 90 degrees.

Looking at the mess, one could not believe either of us could live, let alone come out of it in one piece. We were both unscathed. No bumps, no bruises, no red spots, just a little windburn is all we had. My fiancé flew through the air, but he landed safely.

We agreed we would have hit at about forty miles per hour, perhaps more, and maybe we might not have noticed that we had actually died right there and then.

But we were alive!


I know my Angel saved us both. Perhaps a whole churchful of Angels was needed to save us. That I don’t know. But when I look at my husband, and our three children, and I think of the work we all do, they must have known all that already, and decided it was well worth the effort to protect us from the crash.

Strangely, in all those years since, it has stuck in our minds that right at the moment of impact, and for only a split-second of time, we were not actually there – missing from the scene – and therefore spared that deadly smash-up.

Without, what I call, ‘a miracle happening’, nothing could have saved us then.

The wrecked motorbike was pulled to the side of the road, and my fiancé went with the people in the Customline to the nearest town to return with a salvage vehicle. I was left alone with the motorbike wreck, and every passing motorist stopped to check out if I was hurt. Nobody could believe I had escaped that smash-up without injury.

After a while, I also stopped believing it, and I had to go and lie down on the slope by the side of the road. Soon I began to shake all over, and the shaking got worse and worse. In the end I shook so badly, I ‘rattled’ all the way down the slope into a ditch.

Two years later, we drove our car to the Jenolan Caves.

That’s my story . . . Ann (and Josh).

If you want to have a look at these beautiful caves <>

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Toujours au Service de Michael.

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