Call it a Miracle.

 

From the Desk of George Barnard.

Just Mildly Repressed.

In the previous submission Dr. Mendoza remarks: “I want to remind you now of a healing exercise in which we both played our part. It goes back to the summer of 1959… (snipped).

That healing exercise was not recorded in the accompanying transmission. In fact, it has never even been written. And there were no words to record today, either. It was “re-visited”, and it was “relived”, as if it was happening again, right there and then.

It had to be re-lived, because as I understand it now, it has long been mildly repressed, to only partly surface in my mind when a member of my family would remind me of it. It was both, traumatic and exhilarating, but such that one would perhaps tend to push it somewhat to the back of one’s mind – “just slightly over the horizon of everyday memory”.

Because it was frightening!

A Day at the Beach.

The scuba gear, towels, and beach umbrella were packed into our car. The tire pressure all around had been checked, for we would be traveling a rather bumpy road. As I again approached our small dwelling to pick up the last item to take along – a big metal cooler – my then only child stood in the doorway, holding that cooler high.

Not yet two years old, she had dragged the heavy cooler from the kitchen, and was holding it up for me to take it from her. There was an expression of great exertion on that puffy little face. That packed cooler was much too heavy for her!

Quickly I moved towards her to grab the cooler, but I was too late. She lost her grip and the cooler sheared past the threshold and took the last digit right off her toe.

A Servo Mechanism.

I picked up the child and placed her on the couch. I picked up the severed piece of her toe and dipped it into a jar of solvent, and I then carefully put it back where it had been.

I had become a servo-mechanism, a robot, seemingly without a single thought of my own, as I carefully readjusted that piece of cut-off toe to where it belonged. Not for a moment did I realize there was only the minimum of bleeding, and not for an instant did I expect that toe not to heal. Something like it had happened on two other occasions. It was happening now that “an unknown other” controlled my mind.

Although our day at the beach was utterly spoiled, there was no longer a sign of any damage to that little foot just hours after that “incredible” healing exercise.

I would have to wait still many years to find out who was using me in that way.

It was Dr. Mendoza, I later suspected. Now we know.

The Contra Indications to Success.

Consider now this unlikeliest of successes. That heavy metal cooler had a relatively sharp bottom edge – the finest of Pittsburgh joints – and it had made a remarkably clean cut on the big toe of the child’s left foot, but it had cut through blood vessels, nerves, connective tissue and muscle, leaving the tiny pieces of the bone exposed.

Micro-surgery was in its infancy, and hardly of interest to me. And even if it were advanced, I would have had no idea about treating the wound and conserving that tiny little piece of toe joint with its little nail.

I had been “moved to move” and another had entirely controlled my mind.

But the strangest thing of all was what I had been made to do with that tiny body part. I had dipped it in turpentine, and if that wasn’t horrible enough, that solvent was badly polluted with machine oil.

A Form of Self-Punishment.

The next few hours were devastating to the emotions. As if awakening from a bad dream, I slowly began to realize what I had done. Visions of the youngster having grown to become an attractive teenager, and telling all who wanted to know how her dad had spoiled her every chance to wear high-heeled sandals by not taking her to a doctor at a most crucial time.

Unexpectedly, some visitors arrived, and they added to what they perceived to be an urgent need for me to feel extraordinary guilt for what I had done. Worst of all was the mother’s reaction to the trauma of the year. She was hysterical, seemingly unaware of any “storyline in normal behavior”.

Soon I began to doubt that I had made the right move to save that tiny toe.

But that little toe was fine, and still does what big toes do. There’s no sign of reduced feeling, not a mark or tiny scar, no evidence whatever of that dreadful Sunday in December of 1959.

A Present Theory Only.

Dr. Mendoza had been there to guide me in that strange healing exercise. He just now claimed it as one of his extraordinary successes of the “business” he is in. Some who witnessed the event still call it a miracle, but I’m no longer buying too many miracles, if any. I witnessed an event that remains unexplained, is all.

I have nothing more than a wild, unproved theory.

Having control over the ‘element’ that is time, our helpful Midwayer Buddy may well have been able to reverse time in some way for that toe to again become what it previously was. And perhaps this explains some of the work of Jao de Deo, Arigo, “The surgeon of the rusty knife”, my friend, Placido of the Philippines.

For that matter, I feel that the dirty, blackened turpentine probably worked just as well as would everyday saliva, smooth peanut butter, or Uncle Dan’s salad dressing in that “miraculous” circumstance – the kind of which we will encounter more and more.

May God bless these ever-alert Midway Friends at our service.

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

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