Planetary Help At Hand.

 

From the Desk of George Barnard

A Never-ending Task

They are the Midwayers, Planetary Helpers, or Spirit Guardians. They exist in a ‘facet of time’ just outside the human range of vision, but they live and travel in our space. Their domain is called, ‘The Midway Realm’.

Their 11:11 AM and 11:11 PM time prompts that are known worldwide are their ‘trademark’ courtesy calls. They are responsible for their actions to the Seraphim, and since every human on earth is under seraphic watchcare, the Midway workers are likely to turn up anywhere. They are opportunists. Wherever they can assist, they will, in some way.

In the early 1960’s, in an event of their inputting words and visions into my mind, they managed to save the Palamas family from certain ruin.

This is just an example of their work in a never-ending task.

An Excellent Salesman

The youngster poking his head in my door had a big smile on his face. “You de boss?” he enquired with a noticeable accent. Without waiting for an answer, he brazenly stepped into my office. There was a hopeful look on the face of this barely-a-teenager, proudly wearing the school blazer of a nearby Christian school.

“I’m the boss,” I told him, “unless my secretary is close by. When she’s around, I takes orders from her. All bosses do so! Is this news to you?”

The smartly dressed boy needed a little time to digest that information. He considered my response to be moderately funny, smiled a broad smile, and asked, “Yous have a job for me after school’s out? I can sweep up, and I can wrap things, and make coffee, and anything you show me how to do it first, after school, and all this autumn and winter. After that I help my dad on the farm by South Creek. I come past here every day from school.”

“We all sees you walking past, to and fro, every day,” I jokingly told him. “We here does little else but stare out of the window all day, don’t you flippin’ believe it.”

This kid will one day become an excellent salesman, I thought. He knows how to communicate, and smile. With some diligent study, his English would improve as well, but his marked Southern European accent would, in time, probably disappear.

He seemed a wise, fun-loving boy, who could sell any idea.

“A Real Good Kid, that Con.”

Constantine got himself the ‘after-school’s-out sweep/wrap/coffee/show-me-how-to-do-it job’, and the workers all sang his praises. Especially the women were impressed with him, because the boy — for one still so young — proclaimed a great love for both his parents. In the ladies’ view, he was ‘a real good kid, that Con!’

Each day the factory floor was made spotlessly clean, the office carpets vacuumed. Coffee was always at the ready, and ingredients stocked up as a matter of routine.

One evening, the youngster and I happened to be busy at the same workstation, and he told me about his family.

They had arrived in Australia a little more than three years prior. Neither parent spoke English. There were five more children in the family, and Con was the eldest. His father worked at night, and during the day he tended the farm and its thousands upon thousands of strawberry plants. His mother earned a little money cleaning people’s houses from time to time, and she also ‘went over the money’. As well, she made all their clothes.

Surprisingly, all of the boy’s pay went into the household. There was no pocket money for him, ever, but he said he didn’t mind.

“We’re losing the battle, George,” he told me. “We are slowly going broke, but we’re gonna be hanging in there until the last day. We don’t get many strawberries, and they’re all much too small and measly.”

“It’s Much Too Rich!”

“My dad’s not very well,” Con informed me. “He worries so much, he’s losing weight now. He comes home from work about daylight time, has something to eat, and gets in amongst them strawberry plants. He gets tired, you know. And then he has a rest in the wheelbarrow, and he falls asleep right there.”

He looked at me and laughed. “Well you can’t blame him! But it looks funny with him asleep in the barrow! God’s truth! One day, someone will come and wheel him away!”

“It’s much too rich,” I told the boy. Those words had seemingly come from nowhere.

Both of us had stopped working. Con was looking at me with wide-open eyes, whilst I was seeing their farm in vivid color — row upon row of strawberry plants, their undersized and sickly leaves, the tightly packed red soil.

“Con, that red soil is useless for strawberry plants. It doesn’t drain well enough,” I told him. “Tell your dad to mix loads of river sand with that red clay.”

What do I know about strawberries, I thought. Nix!

The young man seemed to have read my thoughts. “We never grew strawberries before,” he remarked. “We really don’t know what they need.”

“It Spooks The Daylights Out Of Me.”

Something had happened that I would not be able to explain for many more years. I had no idea where these visions, let alone the words, came from. This kind of thing happened all too often, but I knew it was inevitably right on the money.

Con also seemed to sense it was right. “You were staring right past me into the distance, and you saw our farm,” he simply stated.

“Sometimes it spooks the daylights out of me,” I told him.

“It spooked me too,” he answered, “but I know it’s right.”

Four months later, Con’s casual job with the firm came to an end. All his spare time would be spent on the farm, I guessed. We all missed that cheerful young man in his neat and spotless homemade clothes, as we missed an equally spotless factory floor, and much more.

“He Did As You Said.”

“I knew you’d still be here,” a familiar voice told me. “You’d be sorting out a few things for the crew for tomorrow.”

It was a dirty and bedraggled Mr. Constantine Palamas Jr., holding a big basket of strawberries for me to take.

“They are beautiful! And big! Thank you! Con, I thought you said…”

“They’re from the ten acres my dad replanted,” he answered. “There’s more where they came from. Dad got truckloads and truckloads of river sand, and he hired a machine to dig it all in. He did as you said.”

I took the basket from him. “Come in,” I said.

“We used up all the money that was left,” the young man carried on, “and we couldn’t even pay all the school fees for a term. But we’re alright now!” he hastened to add. “We’ve got lots of strawberries. Lots!”

My heart had skipped a beat with the thought that I had brought an entire family close to bankruptcy. Absentmindedly, instinctively, I had felt my chest.

“I picked them myself, George. They’re for your family, and my mom decorated the basket for your wife. But it was my dad’s idea.”

He carried on. “It’s a lot of work for me, afternoons and weekends, but a lot better than picking measly ones. All the land is drained now, and next winter we will do all the rest, and there’ll be no flippin’ sand left in that flippin’ river!”

He was laughing now. “You knew it, and I knew it, and I told my dad how you saw our farm, and he said, “We do what that man said.”

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

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