The Four-Winged Seraphim

[George]

Some details -- what little I know and experienced regarding The Four-Winged Seraphim -- is recorded here for the 11:11 Progress List subscribers.

Part One.

The University of Time-Space does not always teach us 'year one, term one' to make it easy for us. Sometimes we can only draw our 'approximately accurate' conclusions after half a lifetime, sometimes not at all.

Almost 30 years ago I had the strangest vision. In this vision I was looking at what appeared to be a huge paved area in near darkness. The only light about the place came from what resembled a massive and sustained meteor shower. However, they could not have been meteors. Not in any way!

Meteors come from the sky and fall down to earth, and everyone already knows that. Doh! These brilliant light flashes were taking off from this immense platform, lighting up the sky and disappearing into space at a rate of knots.

Did I have this vision for 5 sconds, 10 seconds, more? Kinda hard to say after all these years. Not until 1997 did I learn what it was I had been shown -- thousands of Four-Winged Seraphim taking off with their individually-cared-for human souls -- a spectacle to behold.

Part Two.

A Live Payload

It was not the first time Barnard had been lifted high into the sky. It would not be the last time either, but something was different about this experience. He was resting in mid-air, perhaps thirty feet above his body, and on a soft, full-length, transparent cushion, it seemed. That was not his way. He tended to zoom around at great speed, skimming over rivers and lakes, twisting and turning, and darting straight up to enormous heights, weightless, and never at rest.

This was different. He was not quite weightless, but he was motionless.
Only hours before, the industrialist had retired early, disgruntled, emotionally devastated. He had requested the Great Master of the universe to take charge of his life, or alternatively make him wake up quite dead by morning, and at no specific time. The hour of his demise was left to the Creator. Life no longer mattered to him. In his dark forest of despair, not a single light was glowing. The professional problem solver had been hit too fast, too hard, and far too often, by the seemingly insolvable.

He had truly given up.

The many who attended him knew him better. They knew that, generally, he tended to have fun. They knew he played all kinds of tricks on unsuspecting people. They could not let him depart without liberally giving him back in kind. Although he didn’t know it yet, he already was a student of the Eleven-Eleven, and they would never let up confounding him from that day onwards.

The Spirit Guardians took control of his mind, entirely. They made him get out of bed to switch off a light that wasn’t burning. They made him flick the switch up and down, but stopped him from realizing they had cut the power to that electrical circuit.

The Spirit Guardians’ rookie student normally never bothered about light. He could sleep anywhere, at any time, and within seconds. Even on a beach in full sunshine, he could be dead to the world in no time at all.

Having realized he could not repair the supposedly broken switch, since he brought no tools to the venue where he was staying, there seemed no other option but to take the light bulb from its socket. They made him climb up on a little table to get rid of the annoying light bulb, which inexplicably bothered him. He raised both arms to reach for the globe.

That was precisely what they wanted him to do. They lifted him high, and deposited him on his soft, downy pillow, like parents lift a child and bed it down, yet they could always claim he had assisted them by raising his arms.

It was important for him to realize he was going somewhere. His body was left standing on the table, seemingly on life support. As he looked down through his transparent pillow, and through many concrete floors, he considered the body, which was only vaguely his. It was a useful, carbon-based life form, he thought. It was probably the equivalent of around two large buckets of water standing up on end, he felt. It resembled a made-to-order clothes rack.

All kinds of people were making all kinds of clothes. He knew that! And many layers of these clothes could be put on that useful rack, and they would never get wrinkled on that functional shape.

Momentarily, he felt concern about that clothes-rack body becoming cold. Whoever was now in charge might allow him to go back down to the body, and cover it with clothes. He might well be carrying the clothes in his outstretched arms. Did he have some clothes in his hands, or did he not?

His head had sunk deeply into the pillow. His eyes, also, could not move. He needed to bring his outstretched arms into his field of vision to see if there were clothes in his hands. He moved his arms. There were no clothes in his hands, but he knew his body down below would be fine in the great Golden Flame that surrounded it. It would be warm when he came back. His hands touched something. They touched Someone. And the big wings of his ‘Pillow’ surrounded him, encasing him completely, and the vision of his body was gone.

The lightning-fast Transport Seraph whisked away with her new payload.

The Eleven-Eleven could have simply blotted out all memory of the trip. They were masters in the art of waylaying anyone’s mere human mind. But they did not want to do that. They wanted him to know he was on his way. Above all, they wanted him to look back on the journey, knowing they had fooled him every step of the way.

They knew he liked fun. They, too, played their tricks.

(from one of George's books).