Urantia's Midwayers - Part 1
Urantia's Midwayers - Part 2
Finding The UBook and Seeming Coincidences
Part 1 -- The Anatomy Of Time
To gain faith in the reality of the presence of Midwayers in our daily lives, it is essential for us to accept
that our present understanding of time must be severely flawed. Time is a relatively unknown manufactured
product, and for us to see this commodity as being multi-faceted necessitates the need for us to stretch our imagination
to the utter limit. We may then well comprehend time to be many-sided, but we are unlikely to ever truly understand
The Wildcard We Are Dealt
To us mortals, every second that ticks away pushes the Great Master's birth further back into history… by just
one second. And every hour that passes brings our next birthday sixty minutes closer… precisely… guaranteed.
There was a time -- in the early seventies -- when the Primary Midwayer, Andrea, could only converse with her mortal
student for just twenty or twenty five seconds. The effort of reaching down to our facet of time would swiftly
leave her completely exhausted, and about to collapse.
On November 30 of 2001, Andrea suggested: "… many people still do not comprehend that we share your space, and
that we are only fractionally separated in time. Also, they are unfamiliar with the method whereby Primary
Midwayers come into being. As well, they are at a loss about the first, second, and third phases involved
in the birthing of the Secondary Midwayers."
Being the middle child in a family with seven offspring gave me a precarious position in the hierarchy. The
bigger kids could, and did, push me around. The smaller siblings would tattletale on me for the most doubtful
These constant psychic experiences demanded for me to find an explanation for my knowing what tomorrow would bring,
as well as my perceiving events of a distant past in far-away places. These “psychic hits” served as constant
reminders that the product called time was not “linear.”
Theory upon theory was "invented", only to be discarded in turn. My comprehension of non-linear time was
growing, however. But multi-faceted time would never be fully understood.
Well… Guess What. I'm real!
Not until the Australian summer of 1971/1972, and in a near-death trance, did I meet up again with the Midwayers.
The experiences of my youth were almost completely forgotten, although their "11.11 courtesy wake-up calls" persisted
throughout the years. I now saw those who were to become my constant Companions as mere ghosts.
During my years of practice, there were two colleagues I used to frequently share case histories, therapies and analyses with, for to my judgment there probably is no greater responsibility one can accept than the care for "someone's mind gone off the rails". No stone must be left unturned in searching out the answers.
One of these colleagues was the Lithuanian-born Veronah Miller -- my devil's advocate -- who strongly believed the universe to be an accident, and the human mind to represent the ultimate, unexplored last dimension. Although Veronah came to use many of my visualization therapies, she pitied me for my proposing the results of my research work to be owed entirely to the assistance of my "Spirit Guardian Friends." I greatly missed Veronah when I moved my family, business, and clinic some five hundred miles to the north of our big city.
In her often critical and outspoken ways, she was perhaps a stabilizing influence in my work, for Veronah was all logic, memory, and continued further psych research, although zero intuition. She went by the book. Doggedly determined, she would never let go of any of her patients, until she had done all she could to cure whatever ailed them. Today, in her mid-seventies, wealthy and childless, this contributor continues to practice with great success. Veronah simply loves to help people of all kinds.
Natalie was the younger, and lesser qualified of these two, yet she took on some of the most difficult cases -- "outright disasters" -- not even Veronah would dare touch. There were instances when a mere glance at a new patient would give Natalie all the information she needed to accept, and begin to treat, the new patient.
In her well-appointed clinic, the counselor gave the appearance of a nineteen-sixty hippie with her strings of beads and crystals all over the place. But looks can be deceiving. This youngster was sharp. She was all feminine intuition, and she boldly relied on what so swiftly "filtered into her mind", and seemingly from nowhere. Natalie believed she might have studied her profession in countless previous incarnations. That belief gave her confidence -- her trust in her deep mind already having all the answers.
To my numerous requests to know if either of my colleagues was ever receiving assistance from the 1,111, I would never get an answer. I suspected that at least the younger of the two women would be receiving regular subliminal input, but I would never know.
Jean-Paul Delavalle was at least ten years older than Natalie. When I got to know the couple, the husband was designing and building homes. Approximately every six months he completed another custom-made residence of quality, having done all of the work by himself. Jean-Paul had become an architect/builder after having spent fifteen years in Australia's tropical north as a pest exterminator, where, according to this jovial man, "the termites are as big as silver dollars and can eat the legs clean off your bed in one night whilst you remain fast asleep".
But in those early days people weren't too fussed about wearing safety gear when spraying poisons to keep those insects at bay. Jean-Paul had ingested much of what was meant to kill the termites. The poison had built up in Jean-Paul's liver, and was now effecting his pancreas, which was no longer functioning properly. The Delavalles, too, had moved away -- some twelve hundred miles separating us. And Jean-Paul was going downhill fast.
Jean-Paul was only drinking some fluid now and then. He had wasted away, and only regular morphine injections kept him free from pain. My family and I were lucky to still see our friend just eight days before he died, but we knew the dreaded telephone call would soon come. At least, we were granted the opportunity to say our good-byes.
One evening, as one of my youngsters was doing her homework in the clinic, whilst I updated some therapies, Natalie Jean came on the line. "George," she said, "Jean-Paul died just five minutes ago… and I can't go back into that room!"
"Go back," I told her. "He's still around. Go back, and tell him how much you love him. He needs you there."
She began to sob and cry, "Oh, God! Oh, God! I can't! I'm washed up, George. I haven't slept for days and days. I'm sick. I'm fatigued. I'm at risk! How can I live without my best mate?" She was dissolving in a flood of tears. Jean-Paul had long known he was dying, but in the last few hours there had been a heart-rending scene in his "prison room". He had been raving at her, and accusing her of serious misbehavior during their marriage. Natalie was utterly distraught.
"Go back into that room!" I told her bluntly. "Do as you're flipping well told, Natalie. Jean-Paul will try to come back to you, and he'll be very frightened if you're not there."
"Oh, God! I can't!" she cried. "He's dead! He stopped breathing!"
"Damned well do it, Woman!" I shouted at her. The line went dead.
The seventh grader at the end of my desk had overheard all of the conversation -- all of Natalie Jean's loud pleading and sorrow, and all of my stern words. Danielle looked shocked, ashen-faced, and quite undone. Her "Uncle Jean-Paul" was a great entertainer, and my children all loved that man, his jokes, stories and tricks. Hearing of his demise and hearing what I had blurted at his poor widow had been a double shock to her.
"How can you say that, Daddy?" the white-faced child demanded to know at last. There was a look of disgust on her face. Intuitively she moved away from me.
"I didn't really say it," I told her. "I was made to say it. I didn't even know, Danielle, but it was important, and it will happen. Truly." I was as shocked as was my child by that thoughtless outburst of mine. "Jean-Paul will try to come back to her, Kiddo."
The youngster nodded, but that disapproving look remained. There were Spirit Guardians in the clinic, in the homestead, in the family's cars. She new. They had been around to talk with her when she was still a toddler, and until she was about six-and-a-half years old.
He Was So Peaceful!
During the following morning, Natalie came back on the line. Jean-Paul had indeed "come back to her", she told me. He had looked so serene, even healthy. They had spoken for an hour at least about the wonderful life they had together. Against all odds, Natalie, "the neglected girl most likely" at age fourteen, and Jean-Paul, the orphan boy so regularly beaten senseless by his stepfather, had cemented a wonderful, even enviable, relationship of many years. "See you later, Sweetheart," he had told her. Then he closed his eyes and slipped away.
"George, he saw your Spirit People!" Natalie told me. "And he was shown where he will be. It's a beautiful place! There's green grass, and rivers, and so many Angels! And, George, I would have missed all that if you hadn't told me to go back to him."
"Will you document it for me, Natalie," I asked.
There was a lengthy silence, and then she said, "I don't think so. It was too private."
Often I am asked what it is Midwayers actually do. The short answer is; "They care for us."
Copyright © George Mathieu Barnard 2001 -- The 11.11 Spirit Guardian Documents
(One of the One Thousand, One Hundred and Eleven)
He had been a university lecturer for a period of three decades. He was in his eighties now, still fit and active, and writing his extensive memoirs in our university town. For the old man and the much younger George Barnard to meet up seemed a bit of a coincidence, but the Spirit Guardians’ rookie student no longer believed in coincidences.
Things were simply meant to be. The universe was a highly organized venture, belonging to all the infinite numbers of Creature/Organizers who dwelt within its confines. There was always something new to be experienced for even the lowest of creatures -- evolutionary humans.
The learned old man directed his visitor to his minuscule office. He did not want anyone else to overhear his story. There was disbelief all around him, he said. There was a total lack of understanding of the Spirit World. Irreverence! And, sometimes, even verbal abuse was directed at the scholar. Then he openly questioned why he should actually confide in George. But of his own accord, he decided he must tell his story.
The rookie sensed it. Here was something worth knowing -- something "meant to be". The clever old guy shuffled his big stack of papers about. He finally retrieved a few pages from the stack, but placed them to one side. It seemed he only wanted to prove to George Mathieu that he had actually documented something. He did not want the younger man to read it.
“I was only a child at the time, George,” he said, “very ill, and paralyzed because of the disease I had contracted. I was bedridden for almost two long years. Helpless. And one day, when I was at home alone, a fire started in the electrical wiring of my home, near the heater. The room filled with smoke, but I couldn’t get out of the place. I couldn’t move! I would have choked, or I would have burnt to death. Someone came in and rescued me. He calmly picked me up, carried me through the hall and the smoke, and placed me on the lawn, a safe distance from the burning house. But he was not a man. He was a Spirit! And then, he left. He disappeared into thin air.”
Barnard smiled. “I know a whole bunch of them,” he admitted.
“Don’t you laugh!” the professor shouted at him in anger.
“I’m not laughing. My face is always like this. And I do know a whole bunch of them,” Barnard insisted. “Honest. I’m not fooling. What was his name, or number?”
The professor sized up the rookie, cautiously, still in two minds about going on with his story. “What was his number, you say?” he asked.
“Yeah. If he was a Spirit Guardian, he either had a name, or a number, but probably both. It helps speed up communication in their realm. Their language is almost pure math from what I have gathered.”
“He didn’t have a number, George.”
“Well, did he say his jolly name,” Barnard asked, still amused.
“Oh, yes! I inquired about his name, of course I did. That is, after I thanked him for saving my life. He said his name was Mongo-Zulu. He did in fact look like he was both, yellow and black. A mixture of the two races.”
“I don’t know him,” Barnard admitted. “I know some of his brothers, or cousins, and only one of his sisters, or nieces. I don’t know precisely… second cousins… whatever. They belong to a Celestial Army. They are called the Eleven-Eleven, les Mille-Cent-et-Onze. I call them all Spirit Guardians. They don’t mind. What was he wearing?”
“He was nearly naked, he was. And in the middle of winter, too!”
Barnard nodded. “I know one who goes around just like him. Tell me, did he have a kind of short, gray hide tied around his waist? Was he going around in his bare feet?”
The professor’s face clearly indicated Barnard had guessed right.
“You do know them,” he said. He was only talking to himself -- absentmindedly.
“I know one called Doctor Mendoza. He is dressed like a real gentleman, that one. He’s rather a slim Fellow. But Ahbécétutu, Bzutu, or ABC-22 goes around in a skimpy hide, just like your Mongo-Zulu Friend. Bzutu is a fierce Warrior, of powerful build, and he is also my immediate Superior.”
“They are subservient to us!” the professor disagreed.
“Hah! Subservient to their Seraphic Superiors,” Barnard told him. “We are right down the bottom of the pile, man. The lowest intelligent life-form of any permanent consequence on any inhabited world in any universe.” He laughed. “We are the saddest mistake in all creation. That’s why we need them to look after us.”
It seemed an argument was brewing right there. The professor had been teaching for so many years, he had forgotten how to listen to, or learn from, a mere therapist. He seemed to also have been less than greedy, or badly short-changed, when the humor basket was passed around.
“We are the only inhabited world in the universe,” the professor stated angrily.
The rookie would not argue, but gave it one more try. “Give me a piece of paper,” he suggested. “Thank you. Here goes. Mendoza, first of all. Strike out every second letter, and you are left with MNO. MNO-8 actually, it’s not MNO-A. Dreyfus, one I only know about. I never saw him, or her. Probably involved with good old Nostradamus. I asked, but I never got a clear answer to that. Strike out every second letter, and you are left with DEF. Possibly DEF-5. Simone, MNO-6, I would say, but pronounce that in French. My Boss -- permanently on sentinel duty -- is Ahbécétutu, Bzutu, or ABC-22.
Just look at it. You’ve got ABC, DEF, and if you carry on with that, you get GHI, JKL, and next up come the MNOs. There’s your Mongo-Zulu -- MNO-Whatever, and here are some of my best Friends… Mendoza, and Simone.” He smiled at the professor. “Problem solved, you know one of the Eleven-Elevens, you lucky man.”
But the professor would have none of it. “They are ancient! They predate all forms of written language!” he snapped.
“They were a bunch of troublemakers who reorganized themselves,” Barnard told him. “Well, some of them were up to no good. I asked about their moral values, and Bzutu told me without a moment’s hesitation. I believe some of them were even entering our time slot, and taking drugs. Khat! But most of them sorted themselves out. These Guys are as honest as the day is long, truly. Their alphabetical/numerical codes are only recent.” They are les Mille-Cent-et-Onze -- no more of them, no less of them."
“I think you had better leave!” the professor told him bluntly.
“Okay. I’m gone. Have it your way.”
In the weeks that followed, and on two more occasions, Barnard tried to get in touch with him, but the professor did not want to talk to him again. He knew it all. Sadly, he had reached a stage in life when he believed he knew everything there was to know.
“That stubborn old guy frustrated the daylights out of me,” Barnard grunted at the Spirit Guardians. “He doesn’t want to know you Guys now. A closed shop mind, he’s got. Still, at his ripe old age, it couldn’t be long before he does find out, could it now?”
The poor old man would learn no more on his experiential trip on this rock in space. Barnard felt like a frustrated messenger for the 1,111.
“Do something about your popularity,” he advised the Eleven-Eleven. “Cause nobody here don’t love you no more.”
Taken from the writing: "The Anatomy of the Half-way Realm".
Copyright © George Mathieu Barnard, 2000 -- The 11.11 Spirit Guardian Documents.
Notes: As a child, the Professor lived in Great Britain. The Midwayer who saved his life actually deposited the boy in the front yard of the home, on top of the snow.
For years, I wondered why the Midwayer saved this fellow, out of the countless numbers that are left to die in fires. This man grew up to become a lecturer in -- of all things -- Astrology. But then, so many people who study Astrology become very spiritual. It must have been for the positive impact he would have on many others in later years.
The meeting described dates back to approximately 1991 or 1992.
It was in 1995 when through rather miserable circumstances, I found myself back in my University.
Apparently, it was going to take forever for me to get over a horrific mugging in which my neck had been broken
in two places, and my spinal cord was severely bruised. A "gaggle" of medical specialists all agreed that
my life, as I had known it, had come to a sudden end. I would never heal, and probably not live very long,
they professed. But I did not believe them. I simply could not afford to believe them.
The Exchange Students
My short-term memory improved out of sight. By 1997 my dissertations were winning me some
prizes, and a college room was set aside for my use as an in-house clinic. I was teaching both English to
our foreign exchange students, as well as filling in for an ailing lecturer in her Year-1 French conversation
classes. But the best news of all was the return of some sporadic communication with my "Spirit Buddies"
of many years.
Naturally, obviously, the Frenchies felt most at home with me. I spoke their language, their
dialect even. As well, I drank the sweet "diluted bitumen" coffee they were brought up on in their small
town south of Paris.
The Dispersal Sale
They were at the door of their surrogate parent's flat, saying, “You are coming, too?”
“I am coming, too, whereto?” he asked with a smile.
“Into the town? Walking?” they suggested.
“Walking? Mon Dieu!” he complained. “But how can I refuse mes pauvres enfants adoptés?”
“Good for your circulation, old man. Using your feet.”
The center of the town’s shopping mall had been entirely cleared. Many tables had been set up, and they were loaded up with books. The local library was cleaning out its surplus stock.
As they entered the mall, still more boxes of books were being brought in on a forklift truck. The group of students approached the tables as a man carrying a large box of books walked towards them. The box was placed right in front of their faces as they arrived.
“C'est pour toi, Georges,” said Cynthia.
“This one is for me,” said Barnard.
Both he and the young lady had placed a hand on the largest of the books, and they had done so at the very same time. Both he and the girl had also spoken at the same time. And yet, neither of them knew the book. It was one of those strange occurrences that makes people look at each other and laugh in embarrassment, since they don’t know what else to do.
The man who had carried the box looked perplexed. "Goofy university students," he grumbled. The whole group was laughing now. All had witnessed that unusual incident. Barnard scooped up the big book and paid just a single dollar for it. He carried it all the way through the town, and back to his flat. Not until he got to his room, did he look in the book, and leaf through a few pages.
“Oh… My… God!” he cried. “All my writing is done, and now I find this!” There it was, on page 865 -- The 1,111 loyal secondary midwayers… “Midwayers? Midwayers! They’re my Guys!”
Moments later he visualized shredding all his manuscripts. A book as big as the Urantia Book had been in print for decades, yet he had never come across it. He had worked in isolation with these… Midwayers whom everyone else probably knew as well as they did their own parents or offspring.
The Midwayers had asked him specifically to document their years of association -- their Inter-species Alliance. He felt like a fool for having obliged, and worked on the lengthy documentation for years.
The Frenchies talked him out of shredding the work.
Taken from the writing: "The Anatomy of the Half-way Realm".
Copyright © George Mathieu Barnard, 2000 -- The 11.11 Spirit Guardian Documents.