I don't read much other than psychology-related stuff, but one thing is wrong IMO: Souls don't get lost.
There was not a Guardian Angel created stupid enough to lose the soul he/she was responsible for,
because on their ability to so care for souls depends their ascension.
Maybe astral selves is a better name for what William J. Baldwin talks about.
Your soul is like your angel's life's savings, bank account, money jar.
<<< Do you know in what forms the advance notice may arrive? >>>
No. It varies. All kinds of ways.
This was (is) a VERY important kid. . . . This is from one of my books.
Jasmin Chand Singh
The little girl with long, pitch-black hair walked right up to George Mathieu who was leisurely inspecting the family’s back yard vegetable garden and smoking a cigarette. This miniature version of Jasmin Chand Singh, mother of two, was glaring up at George with a disapproving look in her big, deep brown eyes.
“Smoking is bad for your health,” she warned the grown man in a most genuine tone of voice. “It will hurt your lungs and then you die.”
“Yeah...” George agreed. He found it difficult not to smile at that sincere remark. “How old are you, nipper?” he asked. “Bet you don’t know,” he teased.
“Four-and-a-half,” she answered immediately. “And you had better put out that cigarette and come inside. There will soon be food on the table that you have never tasted before.”
Here was a smart little girl, telling him what to do and when to do it, and on his first visit to her home. But Barnard was not about to stub out his smoke yet. “So, all right then. You do know how old you are,” Barnard grudgingly conceded. Then he added, “Okay. Fine! I can live with that. But I bet you don’t know your date of birth.”
“I... do... so,” was her response. And then she told him the precise date and time.
“You are a twenty-two master number,” George told her after a quick calculation. “It gives me exceedingly great pleasure, Miss Chand Singh, to inform you that you are a very important person.”
“I know that!” she responded with an air that implied he should have instantly perceived that obvious fact on arrival at her home.
He stubbed out his cigarette and smilingly followed the cute little muppet to where the food was waiting.
* * * * *
The muppet was right. George, indeed, had never tasted any of those dishes. They were spicy, but they were good.
An even smaller version of Jasmin Chand Singh had been watching George Mathieu from the dwelling’s window as he wandered around her garden. Barnard had looked up a number of times and noted the little one’s keen, spying eyes following his every move. Surprisingly, she now chose to desert her parents at their end of the table to sit right next to him, sparing him a big grin each time he glanced down at her. Here was an alert, daring, sociable and fun-loving little kid.
“I am much, much bigger than you are,” Barnard informed her of the obvious, and with a smile, tried to elicit a response from her.
“Yes, you are,” she agreed, so clearly spoken for one so young.
“Might you perhaps know how old you are?” Barnard asked. “I should think you do not know, but perhaps...” He was enjoying the interaction with this wise, confident little girl. So was everyone else in the room.
All eyes were on the child as she placed her spoon on the table and held up three stubby little fingers for all to see, then she pulled one finger down and gave her logical account for that unusual move. “Nearly three,” she explained to George.
“Eight weeks to go, George,” Jasmin chimed in with a laugh. “We sometimes suspect she may be counting the days. There’s a new three-wheeler bicycle coming to make her acquaintance on her birthday.”
Barnard was rather surprised by the ability to communicate of one still so tiny. He hesitated to pose his next question, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “I don’t even know my own date of birth,” he confessed, trying hard to show an honest face, “I forgot. It’s long, long ago. So, I suppose you could be forgiven for not knowing yours.”
Amazingly she understood, and knew the date, the year as well. Even more remarkably, here was yet another twenty-two master number, and with a configuration of numbers much like that of her older sister.
“You, young lady,” Barnard explained to the child, “are also a very, very important person, just like your sister.”
The child instantly agreed, nodded vigorously, and rewarded him with another big smile. But Barnard had long ago done their parents’ numbers, and what struck him most of all was that the children’s configurations had nothing in common with either Jasmin’s, or her husband’s. They could be throw-backs to the grandparents, he mused.
Soon, the meal was finished. A notepad and pen was found, and Barnard poured himself over the figures. The birth dates of both sets of grandparents were known and could easily be related to their respective children — the girls’ father, and their mother. But both kiddies had nothing in common with any of their four grandparents either. It seemed the girls didn’t belong to the family, but they sure belonged together.
Jasmin seemed to discern Barnard’s inability to make sense out of the numerological Chand Singh family tree. “They are definitely ours,” she explained with a nervous laugh, “not adopted.”
Barnard threw the notepad onto the table, leaned back in the chair, but kept staring at the numbers. A pair of twenty-two master number kids. In a two-kids-only family? And both of them all brain and mind? he mused. Nothing adds up. Ten... twenty thousand to one. Who knows? And the rest.
“They... are very smart, Jasmin,” he assured the mother. “They are all brain and mind. And if you think you know how smart, I’ll tell you to forget everything you reckon you know about them. You’ve seen nothing yet.”
What are these clever little babies doing here? he questioned of his own mind.
“But for to teach the one who is to come,” came a loud voice. It was ringing in Barnard’s right ear, but as always, no one else had picked up on it.
No one ever flaming well does! he reminded himself angrily. Settle down! Relax. He did, and then he was seeing the child.
There stood a little boy, about four years of age, waiting for Jasmin to take him to playschool. There was a full-color image of the child, projected across the low table.
“All brain and mind?” Jasmin remarked. She grabbed up the note pad and asked, “Do you mean the numbers you’ve circled here? George? Eh, George!” And as Barnard finally nodded that that was it, she said, “They’re all circled!” Then, more pensively, “They should have been boys.”
It seemed girls weren’t required to have brains and minds, according to the mother. There was no mistaking her heart-felt disappointment at her not yet having borne a son. It was something George Mathieu would never understand, but he knew that for whatever reason, it was typical of her race to want boy children.
“Your next child will be a boy,” Barnard promised her calmly.
There was an instant look of agony on Jasmin’s face, no response.
“Suit yourself, girl,” Barnard told her. “I just saw him, clear as day.”
She suddenly looked hopeful, intrigued. “Are you sure?” she asked.
It was Jodi Barnard who answered her in his stead. “George never misses, Jasmin. And you don’t have to be pregnant for him to see the next child. It works all the time. He doesn’t even know how he does it, but he does it. And because he’s scared stiff of babies, they’re always showing up at two, or three years of age.” She was rubbing it in, ready to let him have more. “He won’t touch them until the fragile labels fall off them at eighteen months. But I have always had that suspicious feeling it might have more to do with him not wanting to change their diapers.”
Jasmin had heard enough. “You saw him at two or three years old?” she wanted to know.
Barnard shook his head. “Four. Four years old. Off and on his way to playschool, Jasmin. But before he gets there, he will already have had two teachers. His sisters. They will literally hunt up his IQ to an unbelievably dizzy height. Those two are born teachers.” It had all been so clear in Barnard’s mind, so fast.
Soon after, they left the Chand Singh’s. Barnard had not been prepared to tell the woman that the son she had not yet conceived would become an Enlightened One. He might, or he might not, tell her later. He would certainly have to inform her the child was to be educated along the strictest of their religious teachings. He was under no circumstances prepared to inform the mother to be that her child would communicate with the 11.11 Spirit Guardians. Her boy would become a rookie in a progress platoon, no doubt of it. Ahbecetutu already knew and had passed on the information in a flash.
* * * * *
Barnard had no idea it would be almost six years before Jasmin’s little boy made that first great journey to his playschool just five doors down his street. As the months ticked by, Jodi Barnard kept informing her husband that their friend, Jasmin Chand Singh, was stubbornly ‘refusing’ to fall pregnant.
“Did you see it all wrong, then, George?” she wanted to know.
“No,” he told her. “It’ll happen. But what puzzles me is that the information arrived so far ahead of the event and so effortlessly. Think about it. The Guardians needed to practically sell their souls to find out about Michael’s drowning at that beach whilst we would have been in the Philippines. And that was to happen only a few weeks into the future.” He gave her a searching look. “Do, Jodi, please, occasionally rub a few cerebral neurons together till you get a mild spark and think about that proposition.”
“I don’t think about those spooky things,” she answered smugly. “That’s what I married you for. No other reason. You think about it.”
“I did. And I’ve concluded that the administration of this local universe is another of those bureaucratic nightmares,” Barnard contended, “All red tape. Everything is on a need-to-know basis for the evolutionary two-legged mammals.”
It was clear she didn’t believe him.
“It’s true, Jodi! And for every new concept that falls within our grasp, some bunch of devious Seraphim invent two more enigmas, stick them into folders, glue them shut, and mark them ‘secret and confidential.’ We’re here for no other purpose but to entertain their perverse natures. This world is their sadistic equivalent of a mind-game fun park, and interactive zoo.”
“You can be so... Oh, I don’t know...”
* * * * *
It was Saturday, and early breakfast time in the Barnard household. The three white haired, blue eyed Barnard offspring were noisily devouring their scrambled eggs, toast, and jam.
“Jasmin is back in the hospital and this time they are keeping her there,” Jodi Barnard informed her husband. “She still has more than a week to go, supposedly. That makes this the fourth false alarm. Wouldn’t you get fed up with it?”
“I have no immediate personal reference to the problem of childbirth,” Barnard suggested dryly, evasively. Seven o’clock was much too early for him.
The children were laughing. Jodi ignored his remark. “Jasmin hasn’t even had a scan or anything, so they don’t actually know if it is a boy or a girl. She’s confident, though. But if it does turn out to be a girl, she says, we can have it.”
Barnard looked around the table, carefully studying each of his children in turn. “Okay,” he agreed at last. “You’d never tell it apart from these, our own crowd.”
The children thought that was funny as well. Jodi had nothing to say. She was on her way to answer the homestead’s noisy telephone. Moments later she was back.
“That was Jasmin! And she’s got a boy! And everything is fine. The baby weighs...” She had seated herself again. Then her mouth fell open and she stared at her husband in disbelief. So she stayed.
“Don’t just sit there sitting there,” Barnard suggested with a measure of annoyance in his voice. “What, Jodi? That baby weighs...” he repeated. “How much does the thing actually weigh?”
The children were laughing again, and Jodi finally discovered her tongue. “George? Jasmin said she was going to telephone her husband next up. She phoned us first! She let us know before anyone else! She wanted you to know! Do you realize what it must have meant to her, for you to tell her? All that time...”
“How much does it weigh, woman?” Barnard was getting impatient with her.
“We’ll have to go and see her now!” Jodi replied. “You will have to come, too, and the children. We’ll all go. Jasmin would never forgive us...” She seemed to suddenly notice the wearied look on her husband’s face. “Nearly eleven pounds and twenty-one inches long,” she answered quickly, finally.
“Not worth bothering about,” Barnard joked.
“That’s big! Huge! He’ll be even taller than his dad. You’ll have to come with us, George.”
Barnard shook his head. And with a wink directed at his children, he said, “I hate kids. Can’t stand them! They clutter up people’s houses. They’re not really human.”
There was a roar of laughter from the children at his remark. Years of jesting had made them utterly immune to that kind of preposterous statement. And they tended to often turn to their straight-laced mother to explain their dad was only joking.
Constant exposure to the profound, and the ridiculous, will develop their brains and minds, Barnard mused as he laughed with them.
But his crude jokes never did Jodi any good. She was angry now.
“You must come with us!” she insisted.
“I’ve got patients this morning, Jodi.”
“Three hours from now!” she objected. “We’ll be back by then, easy.”
He shook his head and sighed. “Uh, uh. I can’t go. There was an 11.11 courtesy wake-up call last night. Something serious is brewing and I’ll have to be in the clinic.”
* * * * *
One of our greatest intellectual death-traps is our need for predictability. We feel safe when constrained by the self-constructed perimeter fence of our perceived arena of cerebral activity. We hesitate to move beyond those self-imposed and well-known mental boundaries that box us in.
To Barnard, the 11.11 courtesy wake-up call from the Spirit Guardians of the Half-way Realm meant for him to remain at home. Someone in need would call on him, and his assistance in his capacity as a practicing hypnotherapist would be needed. It was in his clinic where psychic events came about, spiritual happenings occurred, some patients even attained enlightenment. That’s where, to his idle mind, things happened ‘all the time.’
But did they? Really?
In reality, the preponderance of these psychic and spiritual events occurred outside the clinic, the lesser number within its walls. And those four walls constituted just another complete set of self-limiting boundaries of a big box within which he felt safe. Safe in the knowledge that there, and at any time he felt like being slothful, he could get away with not thinking beyond the square.
Barnard felt some concern for Jasmin Chand Singh, a lot more concern for Jasmin’s marriage. Her husband could have been on hand for the birth, George felt. Surely, the man could at least have been notified before anyone else was told. Was their marriage under strain? It turned out not to be the case.
Not at all.
The therapist had greatly underestimated the enormous stress the woman had lived under for years. For her to bear a son, it seemed, equated with the fulfillment of her life’s primary, if not only, goal. George’s casual description of a four-year-old ready to go to playschool, followed by Jodi’s assurance that these visions happened all the time, and could be relied upon, gave Jasmin faith.
Jasmin had lots of faith.
In the two years following the little man’s birth, Jasmin and all her family would have to draw on the strength of that faith to its very limit. But once again, a new vision would help to give her and everyone in her extended family the capacity to endure what was to come.
* * * * *
“You can’t stay at home, George,” Jodi Barnard insisted. She wasn’t giving up. “Jasmin is one of my best friends. What am I going to tell her? Sorry, mate, but my husband thinks he’s much too small to bother about, and they all look like lumpy potatoes anyway?”
She ignored her children’s chatter and laughter about lumpy potatoes. “Ask your Spirit Guides if you’ve got time to see Jasmin and be back in the clinic for whatever is going to happen,” she snapped at him.
“Okay then,” he mumbled. “You’ve won.” He gulped down the last of his coffee and wandered off to the clinic, again forced to contact the Spirit Guardians when he had so often promised to give them a lengthy break.
But the Guardian, Ahbecetutu would not show up. There, in front of George Mathieu and a little to his right stood someone the mortal had never seen before. With great apprehension the rookie scrutinized the unexpected arrival.
He was a tall, white-bearded man in long, creamy-white, golden embroidered, flowing robes. There was a rather tall blue turban on his head to which was attached a shiny, metallic insignia. His hands, palms together, came up in front of his upper chest. Then he bowed his head ever so slightly, after which he straightened again.
Is that a greeting, a sign of respect, or both? Barnard wondered. The rookie wasn’t used to Spirit Guardians showing him respect. Friendship was what the mortal always appreciated. An extremely rare but casual interchange of humor invariably made his day. Criticism is what he often deserved, and inevitably received.
But respect was what the greatly irreverent rookie neither showed, nor appreciated in receiving, especially from One who so radiated intellectual and spiritual attainment, and who by so far outranked him. The thought came to mind that this might be a Melchisedek, but the Guardians’ rookie would never be sure, or ever find out.
Barnard was a business man, industrious by nature, and that commerce-like attitude extended to his dealings with Spirit Guardians. There was rarely the time for niceties or socializing. There was ever another project to be businesslike about. There was surely a copious splash of inverted snobbery, as well. He was a human with an attitude.
Someone had obviously also neglected to inform this wise ‘Indian Man’ that no Spirit found it easy to strike a bargain with George Mathieu unless the always still distrustful mortal knew precisely who he was dealing with, talking to, or working for.
“What’s your name then?” Barnard asked, still uneasy about the unheralded intrusion of this stranger into his supposedly secured domain.
“Avtar,” came the reply. It wasn’t very clear at all. It could well have been, “Abtar.”
It would do Barnard no good asking him to repeat that strange word. The ‘Man’ with the turban was gone.
In his stead, but much more to the left, there suddenly appeared a big, round, smiling face Barnard knew very well. It was Sarasvati, near toothless grin and all. Recognition of the Swami’s unusual features took Barnard only moments. Moments later the vision was also gone.
Then, right in front of the rookie appeared a deep-brown mud-brick wall. Glued to the wall were the roughly cut-out, big, white paper letters that spelled the word, SARASVATI.
This vision wasn’t about to disappear in a hurry. It stayed there for a long time. The sun appeared to be beaming down on this scene. A warm breeze was blowing. Slowly, one by one, the paper letters curled up in the breeze, then detached themselves from the mud and were blown away. The I was lifted off into the wind first of all. The T followed moments later. The A and the V almost took off together. The S, A, and R floated away in that order.
The whole name was disintegrating from right to left.
Perplexed at the strange vision he was having, Barnard expected the remaining two letters, the A, and the S, to fly away next and in that order. But they stayed right where they were. Then, suddenly, the whole vision was gone.
“That 11.11 courtesy wake-up call was in fact for Jasmin, Jodi,” Barnard told his wife. “Something important...” He paused. “Quite a few things of importance for the future, actually, and she needs to know about them. I’m coming with you guys. And you will need to give me some time with her.”
* * * * *
Jasmin Chand Singh didn’t look like a woman who had given birth just a little more than an hour prior. She was beaming, happy and proud of her accomplishment. And her new baby boy looked healthy. But with all the chit-chat of praise and congratulations, it took some time for George to finally get her attention.
“Someone came to visit me this morning, Jasmin,” he informed her with a laugh. “Someone with a big blue turban on his summit, and he said you are meant to give your child a name starting with S and A. I hope that makes sense to you. He told me a few other things, as well.”
There was an instant look of amazement on the woman’s face, then came a smile that seemed to want to stay just where it was, forever. Something had obvious rung a bell. Finally she said, “I was always going to call him Sarjit. It’s just in the last few days that my husband has thought of another name. We will call him Sarjit!”
“There was more, Jasmin,” Barnard reminded her.
“Was it Guru Gobind Singh who came to see you?” she asked excitedly. “Or Guru Nanak?” Without being told, Jasmin had instantly presumed that the visitor was a Spirit Being.
“No,” Barnard answered. “He had a rather strange name. And I didn’t hear him too well. He said his name was either Avtar, or Abtar. One or the other. That’s what it sounded like.”
Jasmin was snickering. “Avtar, George! He was speaking to you not in English, but in my people’s language. He was saying Avatar! He was an Avatar!”
Barnard had heard of Avatari, but long ago banished the concept to where he felt it belonged, in Hindu fairy-tales. Fundamentalist Christian teachings might still have had a powerful grasp on the mind of this helper of the 11.11. And maybe an Avatar was the very same creature as a Melchisedek. And perhaps the message was more important than the Messenger.
“Whatever, Jasmin... Whoever... But he was very intelligent. Absolutely brilliant! And he said your son will be deeply involved with medicine, specifically experimental medicine. Research. It will be his choice of involvement entirely. And he will be very, very successful at it. But he won’t be in it as a member of a team, Jasmin. He will tend to be a loner.”
Barnard gave her a detailed description of the clothing and turban with silver-colored insignia ‘Mr Avtar’ was decked out in. Jasmin recognized all three of these as having special reference to the precise location — a small district, village, or town — from which her grandparents hailed. It appeared to have been a very accurate psychic hit.
Barnard, however, wondered what was so important about the little man’s name. Why Sarjit, he wondered? Who cares? Bruce, Freddie, Charlie, or Dennis would do.
As long as the little fellow is healthy, who cares?
Barnard would soon learn about what really mattered about Mr Avtar’s message.
* * * * *
Sarjit Chand Singh was undeserving of being graded a misshapen potato, or even a typical baby. Sarjit was undeniably a boy.
And his behavior as a ten-week-old caused both Jodi and Jasmin to remark that he must have got to know George Mathieu in a previous life. His alert eyes quickly picked Barnard out of a group of people and followed him around. He also promptly became attuned to Barnard’s voice, even though he wasn’t visited all that often.
But at six months of age Sarjit was hospitalized. Two days later, desperately ill, he was transferred to a specialist children’s hospital. Shortly after, the specialist ordered his little body to be blasted with chemotherapy, again and again, with months, and then only weeks, between the heavy doses.
Soon, the little man found himself checked-out and prodded at by scores of specialists, all of whom would simply shake their heads. And by the time he was one year old, he was below his birth weight, unable to crawl, unable to sit up, let alone walk. But he hung in there, and rarely cried. He was tough. Brave!
And he was dying.
“They want to perform an operation on him,” Jasmin informed Barnard on the telephone. “It’s something altogether new. It’s never been done before.”
“What is the prognosis, Jasmin,” he asked, deeply concerned, shocked and doubtful, and realizing too late he had posed a rather ridiculous question.
“Officially, chances are not good at all, but nobody knows,” she answered. “Unofficially, he has a hundred percent chance of going to playschool when he’s four, remember?” There was not a note of sarcasm in her voice.
Jasmin Chand Singh had faith, stacks of it, and much more of it than George Barnard ever had. She had left the glib-mouthed therapist speechless. The awful news had winded him.
She was still on the line, waiting for a comment from him that didn’t come.
“Now he can be that loner in pioneer health care,” she explained. “His choice altogether not to be part of the research group that will perform the operation,” she suggested. “But he’s doing all he can, the little loner, just staying alive.” She was still waiting for him to say something.
“Yeah...” he answered vaguely.
“Had you forgotten what you were told? George!” This sounded like a severe scolding he had truly deserved, not a question.
“I didn’t think... never... not this way... but you’re right, Jasmin.”
“You were told he would be successful,” she answered. “That’s all I have to hang on to. God help us all.”
“He will! We both already know He will.”
* * * * *
The hospital staff didn’t want to part with him after all that time. The nurses all cried when he finally left. He was their much loved miracle boy, who smiled even when in great pain.
At age four, and after a notable career as an irreplaceable collaborator with a medical research team, and a subsequent one-year-long ‘furlough’ at the end of their successful project, he finally entered playschool, happy and healthy.
He is our Sarjit Chand Singh.