Illawarra District, Australia, January 24, 2009.
Midwayer Mathew.
The Damascus Scribe.
Subject: “Letting Go, and Letting God.”
Received by George Barnard.
Mathew: “I greet you my dear friends, this is Midwayer Mathew. We are all back with you. We returned to our regular southern hemisphere haunts already a few days ago, as you will know by our time-prompting. Our task in the Mediterranean area (Gaza) has come to an end. It has finished for now, and we are hopeful that it will stay that way; recovering, peaceful, and progressive at last.
“Midwayers can be very useful in such human chaos as was produced there. At times those who cannot live must be allowed to die, and aided on their way by us, to let go and let God. We are your caregivers, after all. Indeed we care. At times those who can definitely live might well go into shock, die unnecessarily, and we are on hand to keep them aware and awake until rescue appears.
“It is an interesting phenomenon that the moment of death does not always just happen. Certainly, it approaches thought illness or accident, but then often, rightly or wrongly, a decision is made by the person to ‘let go.’ In some instances we are on hand to make certain that those decisions are not made when the individual can decidedly live. In fairness, I add to this that our dear friends the Mentori were there in great numbers, also.
“The Mentori are specialists about whom you will learn more in the future. Their abilities, which reach far beyond those of your Midwayers, would astound you. Many of them have already been active on your world, and since they hail from systems far and wide, their faces are rarely shown as you may not ‘take kindly’ to their looks.
“For now I admonish you, to ‘take out of your mind’ your constant concern about this place in the world that may well again ignite into fury. You have your task. Stay with it, for that is Progress. Yes. I add to this that you will often note our absence as we are employed in the northern hemisphere, which has the greatest land mass, and by far the largest population. There is generally more often unrest in that part of the world, and so you will more often find that it is those (Midwayers) of the southern hemisphere, who lend a hand to the north. It is generally a rare event of mere public relations for those of the northern hemisphere to be with you in the south.
“Finally, do post your personal experiences about ‘the decision to die’ for all to be acquainted with. I hand (you) over to another now.”
The Scribe: “My dear, dear concerned friends. This is the Damascus Scribe. It is for Me always a pleasure to be in your neighborhood. It is for me always a pleasure to see you busy at your tasks. As your dear friend Mathew has advised you, carry on with the work that is doing so much good in so many places all over this globe. Persevere. Yes, oh persevere with this task so important that you will not for a long time know of its impact far and wide. I thank you My dear ones for your welcome, always. Know that you are appreciated on High. I send My love to all who will read My words.”
George: “This is George now. Thank you both.”
© The 11:11 Progress Group.
You lit a Flame, and it will become a Raging Fire—ABC-22.
www.1111AkashicConstruct.com
Letting Go and Letting God -- 1
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Let Go, And Let God -- 2
Set out below are two chapters dealing with what Midwayer Mathew describes as 'the decision to let Go, and let God.'
It does not always apply, but in this instance the woman was so heavily drugged, she needed someone (human) to help -- to tell her to move on.
This should be considered to be a healing, of a kind.
These two chapters are taken from my second book, "In the Service of 11:11."
Chapter Thirteen
The German Nun
Barnard was well on his way back to his factory, and from visiting Willis when the professor’s statements about similarity and difference finally became clear.
There sure was a parallelism between the Sutton and Jamieson events. Both dealt with some kind of aberration in the normal procedure of dying. Simple! That was easy to see. The incongruity was harder to pick up on, yet Barnard eventually worked it out.
Jennifer Sutton had still been breathing and yet the eternal Essence of her being had swiftly departed. Virginia Jamieson had drowned but her Soul Self had been unable to leave. It pointlessly stayed around. It was all so obvious now.
“I rather prefer to be a healer than a psychic undertaker,” Barnard joked aloud. “It’s so much better to keep body, mind, Spirit and soul together. And healthier.”
He did not expect an answer to the obvious, but felt the Guardians might not care a great deal about throw-away physical bodies. “Why should you care?” he asked.
He would soon learn that this was not the case. Far from it.
* * * * *
Professor Willis, ancient as he was, had once more out-thought and out-reasoned his student of long ago. Willis was one of the best teachers George Mathieu had ever known. If the professor paid him a compliment, it really meant something.
Compliments were few and far between. But if Willis was ‘having a go,’ as it was called, one really smarted. For George it was a double dilemma to be in Willis’ verbal firing line. The already older than average student still blushed like no other. That profuse blushing had been even worst in his high school days.
“Poor me,” he mumbled, remembering one of the worst embarrassments he ever suffered as a boy. “Actually, poor Jéjé. That strange nun was her teacher, not mine.” How fearful Jéjé had been of that sister Eugenie, he mused. Put that old woman out of your mind, Barnard, he thought. Work is waiting.
But the memory, and seemingly even her presence, would not leave him. The nun’s ‘ghost’ seemed to inhabit his workroom for the rest of the day.
Would this mental pre-occupation have something to do with Jehanne Colette? he wondered. There had been quite a few 11.11 courtesy wake-up calls. No, he thought, Jéjé is fine. That German nun? he considered.
That’s ridiculous!
* * * * *
Jehanne Colette, mostly referred to as Jéjé, was George’s only sister. Therefore, the attainment of favorite sister status was hardly a great achievement on her part, although the two were close. None of her brothers, except George Mathieu, resembled real people according to Jéjé’s frequently expressed opinion.
One might almost suggest Jéjé to have been a ring-in. Perhaps she had been adopted, George often thought, just so the family would have at least one girl. She was already so totally feminine, and out-of-place amongst the boys.
Gentle natured, she was an accomplished musician at age nine, and she began to fashion delightful dolls’ clothes by age ten. But, one had to be careful with her feelings. She was so easily hurt. And Jéjé worried about lots of things no one else would ever give a second’s thought.
George had long ago given in to holding Jéjé’s hand, all the way to her girls’ school. It was most embarrassing for the boy. He was, after all, already six years old! Somehow his sister needed that closeness, although she was always still peeved with him for his being a boy. It was likely the silent, peaceful youngster remained the least threatening to her of all her brothers. Almost from the day of his birth, she had spent much time with the infant, chatting away for hours, and perhaps still hoping he would one day turn into a girl.
Jehanne Colette did not perceive her world as a safe place. For the greater part of her childhood her country had been occupied by German invaders. And anything German was bad. Now the greatest threat to Jéjé’s happiness was Sister Eugenie, a German nun, who claimed the voice of the Good Lord could be heard inside everyone’s head. All one had to do was listen. She was an imposing, forbidding presence, and George’s sister was truly frightened of her.
Jéjé and little George would often hide behind the girls’ school’s privet hedge and spy on Sister Eugenie through the foliage. They would look at, and comment on, her furry moustache, her piercing eyes, her manly features, until the nun rang the school bell. Then they would both run to get to their classes in time, laughing all the way.
Sister Eugenie was really a nasty Emperor Penguin, Jéjé claimed. She was a black and white tent with an evil woman hiding inside it. She rapped her girls over the knuckles for just one Dutch word out of place, and that in a district where the ancient dialect changed about every five kilometers — going North, South, or East. George felt sorry for Jéjé, mostly for her being an only girl, but also for her having the villainous Sister Eugenie as a teacher for a whole year.
He had come to believe he was lucky to be a boy, and on his sister’s say so alone. Also because he would never have the miserable Sister Eugenie as a teacher. Little did he know their paths would cross... and more than once.
* * * * *
Their high school exams were brutally squeezed into two short days — sixteen subjects, no less. The English, Dutch, French, and German tests were split between written and verbal examinations, and that made it twenty exams all up. Too bad if you were not feeling too good. After three years of high school blood, sweat, and tears, that diploma was swinging on your performance of just those two short days. If it wasn’t actually legal, which it was, it would surely be criminal.
George was a healthy, but exhausted fourteen-year-old. He could have walked out on his last exam, German, verbal, and still held his position near the top of his class, even if he scored a big fat zero for ditching that last exam. He knew he had done really well, but German had remained the weakest of his languages. Thirty minutes of pressing his fatigued brain into action... Hell, why not? They would all be able to go home soon after that.
Someone found his name on the schedule. She pointed George to a table in the center of the big examination hall. And there she was, of all people: Sister Eugenie. Trust his flaming bad luck, the nun would be his examiner — surely one chance in a million. Already her all-seeing, forbidding eyes were on the young man.
Cautiously, gingerly, he approached her, and he politely greeted her in her native language. He greeted her co-examiner. There was no reply from either of them. That was unsettling. The young male examiner was lying back in his chair, eyes closed, his nose pointed at the ceiling. He was to take no part whatever in the conversation. That was wrong!
These two were both meant to keep the student on the go. That’s what they were being paid to do. But the nun’s sharp eyes were on George. She was looking right through him, silently, searching out his very soul. Fear pinned him to the ground, right there where he stood. If only the ground would swallow him up, for ever. He so wished it would.
Sister Eugenie blinked a few times. Again, she looked at him intently. Gradually, that stern look changed to apprehensive wonderment, then repulsion, then fear, then utter distress, and finally panic. And George sensed her feelings as if they were his own. My God! That was spooky! Who did she think he was? She was scaring the daylights out of him. Poor Jéjé, he thought. Life, during one long year of putting up with that evil woman must have been unbearable for that sweet girl, who always still needed so much tender care.
If Sister Eugenie had leaped from her chair, right then, right there, and had run off down the hall screaming, George would not have been surprised. Coming face to face with Satan himself could not have distorted her face any more than it was. The woman was panic-stricken, and all her feelings were also his. There were no facts.
Suddenly, there was a glimmer of recognition on her face. She visibly relaxed, and as she did, so did George. He felt it. She looked pleased and intrigued, happy now. Excited. Warm feelings of affection came from her mind. And he shared these feelings with her — they were her feelings, sure enough, but they also, instantly, became those of George Mathieu. Sister Eugenie had put his emotions on a giant see-saw, and the woman was scaring him half to death.
She stood and walked around the table. Larger than life, it seemed, she faced the young man. And then she hugged him. Him! George Barnard! That often blushing, shy, fourteen-year-old boy. Right there, smack in the middle of an examination hall full of people, he was being hugged, almost smothered, by the nun so many feared.
He knew he was blushing. Red as a beetroot he would be. Looking over his right shoulder at the crowd. No one was watching them. Thank Christ! He would never tell anyone of this till the day he died. If someone glanced up at him, he would deny it ever happened, or he would leave home for a distant shore.
And then, suddenly, she held him by the shoulders and at arm’s length. Pleased with him and proud of him, as if he was her long-lost relative, she was looking him up and down. So genuinely happy to see him, it seemed, she hugged him again. Fearful of her affection, he froze, blushing, praying she would let go of him. Looking over his left shoulder now, he noticed not a soul was looking in their direction. What a blessing! Thank the Dear Lord for small mercies!
Finally, she let go of him, and calmly pointed to his chair. The examination was about to begin. But he stammered and stuttered. His mind was a blank. Sister Eugenie, for all the genuine affection her soul contained, had destroyed every ounce of his self-confidence.
He had studied up on the German composers, their education system, their import/export figures, and much more, hoping to lead the conversation in that direction, and control it. It was all gone! Lost from his mind. Her crazy actions had ruined his memory, devastated his emotions, racked his feeble little mortal mind.
But she stuck with him. That encouraging smile never left her face. She was urging him on. Helping him along, making suggestions, calmly, systematically. Then it happened.
That German verbal examination, despite some ten minutes of wasted time, became the example of what a verbal exam should be like — rapid-fire communication. He would have never believed himself to be capable of that. There was no higher mark on his high school diploma than his score of that short session. And there was more.
During the few remaining weeks of schooling left to complete, after the examination days, he surprised everyone, including teachers and himself, with what had happened to his command of that language. A quantum leap of progress had been made. As well, Sister Eugenie’s mild, though distinct, Bavarian accent was an unshakeable part of this new-found expertise.
Young as he was, he suspected, believed, there to have been a hard-to-explain, coalescence of minds. A blending of minds, for want of a better explanation. He felt she knew exactly what had happened.
Jéjé Barnard probably never figured out how clever this woman really was. Sister Eugenie might well have heard the voice of God inside her own head. George still doesn’t really know what happened during that afternoon.
It was weird, awfully weird. For many years, he tried to lock it out of his mind. What fourteen-year-old boy would want to relate to a nun? Jeez! You’d have to have a really big problem if you did.
* * * * *
George’s Dutch grandpa was a dowser. He was good at it, and his services were much in demand. For the price of a cigar and a cup of coffee, Grandpa would find you an underground stream of ‘sweet water’ and tell you how many arm’s lengths below the surface it was. All he needed was a fresh, forked willow branch.
That branch ‘told’ Grandpa what he wanted to know. It even told him where you could find your lost wedding band. The branch would wiggle up and down when pointed in the right direction, even if the item of jewelry was high up in a thieving magpie’s nest.
Doing things like that made Grandpa a very respectable person in the district.
His second youngest daughter, George’s Mama, had a huge repertoire of psychic abilities, but not all of them were greatly reliable. She could, however, tell at a glance if a pregnant woman was carrying a girl, or a boy. Unerringly, also, she predicted the weather, a week or so in advance. And if she heard of a missing child, anywhere at all, she would instantly know if it was alive or dead, drowned in a well, or canal, or safely back with its mother the next day.
Knowing these things made George’s mother a very respectable person.
Despite the fact these gifts somehow endlessly bothered George’s Papa, he had married her, and always loved her very much. But it would be fair to say that he ‘came down hard’ on his George Mathieu.
Views of a distant future were pipe-dreams. Predictions of who would visit the following day were coincidental ‘hits’. Information the boy gathered in astral flight were simply dreams to the father.
Over and over, Theodore Barnard denied the proven accuracy of the boy’s ‘other-time-frame’ observations. And if his son ever woke up to the real world, he might actually achieve something one day.
Doing what he did, did not make George a respectable small person.
His Papa would never hear about what that crazy Sister Eugenie had done. Not from his son. George had long ago clamed up. Somehow, some way, he would figure it all out for himself. He had to. The need to know was an all-engaging compulsion that drove his mind to explore.
The sister Eugenie enigma was still bouncing around inside his skull, looking for an answer.
Chapter Fourteen
“You Must Let Go.”
As the principal of a very large girls’ school, placed in that position of authority by the order to which she belonged, Sister Eugenie could hardly be seen as a crackpot. She was efficient, and the attained level of education rose dramatically under her guidance, whilst she still managed to teach her own class full time.
How nuts could the woman be?
She was in her middle fifties when she so greatly embarrassed George, in her late thirties when she proclaimed to her class the voice of the Creator could be clearly heard.
If she was listening to the voice of her own Spirit Self, her statement could hardly be said to be totally untrue. Sister Eugenie, George presumed, had achieved that difficult, but attainable, balance. That balance where Spirit and mind have gone into a most profitable enterprise together. Time and Eternity were pooling their individual resources to realize a common goal. George would be witness to the reality of the existence of the end product of their combined labors.
He just didn’t know it yet.
* * * * *
He had had enough for the day. At three-thirty in the afternoon, he did not want to remain in his factory. He wanted to go home, play with his children and talk to the Spirit Guardians.
“It is the old story, Bzutu,” George suggested to the Guardian. “If the mountain will not come to Mohammad, the Prophet himself must go to the mountain. So, here I am. Got you, at last. This planet swarms with mortals in plague proportions, and there are no more places for you to hide. But good Spirit Guardians are hard to find.”
A little humor might cheer him up, George thought. What a dumb, optimistic assertion that turned out to be.
It had been a lengthy job finding Ahbecetutu, thirty minutes of diligent searching in a trance. He felt the Guardian might have been busy elsewhere, and he had gone to look for him instead of waiting for him to make his presence felt. Wherever it was, George had now arrived. They could be anywhere at all. George could only just make him out. But the ancient Sentinel was clearly not enthralled, neither by his presence, nor by his jokes.
“It was only yesterday, when we jumped from the trees and scuttled about on all fours,” the mortal reminded the Spirit Guardian. “How rich do you expect our humor to be, Bzutu? Give us time to evolve. Meanwhile, give us a little credit for trying to be entertaining,” he suggested.
The look on his face told of his feelings as the mighty Warrior turned to face him and seemed to sigh. The spear, that most deadly looking weapon, was switched from his right hand to his left. George so hoped he did not want to poke it in his direction. That awesome, shimmering, business end of the spear still worried him, each time he faced the Warrior.
“So many wake-up calls,” he reminded Ahbecetutu, “What are they about, my Friend?”
“We guide you,” came the mind-to-mind answer.
“Have you popped the details in my mind already?” George asked.
“It is done,” the Guide’s answer came.
“I’m only human. I have concerns about what I am in for next, Bzutu,” the mortal admitted. “Even our own shadows make us jump, you know. Now... that would never happen to you, would it now?”
Even before he had said it, the Guardian was smiling. At last. But it was mostly to make his pet mortal feel good, George figured. As always, the Spirit Warrior was reading his mind. Only George’s fickle, spur-of-the-moment flashes had ever surprised him in the past.
“You spoil all my jokes by picking my brain,” the human complained. “And I still don’t know what those wake-up calls are all about. Can’t you let the occasional cat out of the bag?”
“You know very soon,” the Guardian’s mind told him.
George nodded, pensively. He knew it was probably best not to know, and just let it happen. Ahbecetutu knew he was just another curious human. The Spirit understood the concept of apprehension, he did not comprehend the feelings that came with it. Fear was to be dealt with, apprehension about the future was such a waste of time, energy, emotions.
“I will try to have a little more faith,” George suggested. “I know you Guys will always look after us.”
“Ever”, came the instant mind-to-mind reply. Ahbecetutu’s attention was needed elsewhere on the planet. Duty called. He needed to send George away.
“Give everyone my love,” George told him quickly. “Their favorite pet vertebrate greets them all. Now quickly tell me the winners of the first three harness races for tonight, old Friend,” Barnard suggested jokingly. “Please, Bzutu? I like to win.”
“We guide you!” came the impatient, spoken answer.
“I’ll split my winnings with you,” the mortal laughed.
“Sleep. We guide you.” Ahbecetutu was gone. Or George was back. Whichever. It was hard to say where in time and space the two minds had met.
“Okay! Okay!” Don’t try bribery, he thought. This Warrior can never be bought. And do as you’re flipping well told, when you’re told and how you’re told.
* * * * *
That very same night, George was looking the Spirit Guardian in the eyes. He could see him as clear as day now. Standing right beside him, he appeared to be quite pleased with George — the Warrior’s very own mortal apprentice. This was much better than a few days ago at San Francisco’s bay. Excellent perception!
And no doubt, the large group of Entities surrounding someone’s deathbed were lending their minds to the entire procedure. George could never achieve this level of observation by himself. That was obvious.
He eyed the group cautiously. Not until that night did he ever see so many Spirits in one crowd. Some were no bigger than a four-year-old child, some were much bigger than the human. There were two of most of them, but not of all. They were clever! Here was millions of IQ in mind power gathered in one place. Smart as they were, they weren’t looking down on a mere mortal. These twelve, perhaps fourteen or more Spirit Onlookers had respect for all creatures.
Some of them seemed to be standing inside the stones of the wall, just to be able to surround Sister Eugenie at the head of her bed. She was dying, and clinging to life, both. And if you didn’t know that it was Sister Eugenie, no one would blame you, but George already knew it was she. She knew someone had arrived, though her eyes were closed. She didn’t know who it was that had come to visit her. Suddenly George had doubts, and he reached out momentarily to touch Ahbecetutu’s shoulder.
“We are in Bavaria?” the mortal asked.
“We are all here,” the Spirit Guide answered. Moments later George glimpsed the rolling green hills, some barren, harvested rye fields, then a view of the convent from the outside. Next up, he was back inside the room. He needed to think. If it’s midnight on the other side, late Spring on the bottom of the world, it must be daytime in Bavaria and late Autumn on the top of the world. The rye is already harvested.
It all seemed to fit.
“This is not a lucid dream, eh, Bzutu?” he asked, just to make sure. “And this is ‘now’ time? Professor Willis said I must know where, and when in time I am.”
“We are all here,” the Spirit Guardian repeated. “And this is now.”
George walked closer to the bed. He needed to take in the material scene. This time, he felt unrushed. There was a young sister, dressed in all white, to Sister Eugenie’s right. One would call her a novice, he thought. There was an old nun close to the patient at her left. These two had long been friends, but she would not hold the dying patient’s hand, and Sister Eugenie needed that. Pumped full of morphine, all her powerful beliefs had become uncertainties. She knew she was dying, but she was now afraid to go on with it.
George wondered what was killing her, apart from old age. Instantly, he could see it all. A worn-out body. And a network of intrusive tissue had invaded her body, more so on her left than on her right. Stacks of it! Of herself, there was nearly nothing left. Triggered by a shortage of trace elements and a defunct immune system, for sure, it looked like cancer, but it was the wrong color. It was white. Cancer was black, and pale brown if it was benign, but likely to turn malignant in the future. He had seen both, and many times.
He turned back to the Warrior. “Bzutu, is that cancer of the lymphatic system?” he asked.
“It is so,” the Guide answered.
George needed to know more. “My body and brain are in my bed?” he suggested. “The rest of me is here, yes?” he asked. “That will explain things for me.”
“It is so,” the Spirit Guardian answered him again.
Someone was looking after his body, he felt sure of that now. It was being cared for on life-support. It meant his Spirit Self, mind and soul, complete with identity and personality, had made the trip halfway around the globe. Sister Eugenie would recognize him for sure.
“Pretty clever of you to get the lot of me transported out here,” George complimented Ahbecetutu. But the Guardian didn’t want to confirm all that.
“Go about your task,” Ahbecetutu ordered. George’s questioning, it seemed, was holding up the procedure for the entire congregation.
“You have to let go now and die,” the Guardian’s apprentice told the nun. “You’ll be fine. It’s easy. Just let go.” Strangely, she was unaware of any of his Spirit Friends being present. Spirit Entities have no souls, perhaps, George thought. But the woman didn’t trust George either. She had been hanging in there for days with the stubbornness of that powerful mind of hers.
I will think in German and let her read my mind, he thought. Forgive me for neglecting that language, he prayed. But it was so easy! It was still there, all of it.
“Remember Jéjé Barnard,” his mind told her. “You must remember Jehanne Colette Barnard, the shy girl with all those brothers.” That wasn’t helping much. “You taught her for many years, Jehanne Colette. In the Netherlands. Remember? Try to remember.”
They were getting nowhere fast. Some fool had drugged the old dear right out of her loving mind. They would be there for ever and one more day at the rate it was going.
It seemed crazy for him to be talking someone into giving it all a miss. Generally, he was convincing people to hang in there. This was one for the books.
“You’re holding up all spiritual progress in the whole universe, Sister Eugenie,” he told her. “A bus-load of Guardian Angels is waiting to take you home,” he suggested. But she didn’t trust him, and still didn’t know him.
“How old are you?” he asked.
She wasn’t sure. Eighty-seven or seventy-eight. She got that all muddled up. That would be eighty-seven, George guessed. She had worked in the Netherlands until she became forgetful, then she had returned home to her convent. At least, she knew that much. Alzheimer’s disease, cooking with aluminum pans, perhaps, had played havoc with her brain and mind. The morphine was doing the rest.
“You know me,” he tried to convince her. “You know me very well. You know me, and you know you can trust me. I’m telling you, there are many Guardian Angels waiting for you. All you must do is let go.”
He looked at the group and smiled nervously at them. He had no idea what, and who they all were. They might feel insulted by being called Guardian Angels. But they sure weren’t complaining, or talking to him.
“You know me,” he carried on. “You made a total exhibition of yourself, hugging me inside that examination hall.” He thought he would probably blush if he could.
Suddenly, there was a glimmer of recognition in her mind. She knew what she had done on that day, so long ago. She knew, but it was faint. Again and again, his mind took her back in time to the crazy thing she had done. Again and again, he told her she was safe. Time after time, he urged her to let go.
Then, she did let go. Hallelujah! At last. In a blink she was dead. And the ‘Essence’ that arose from her body was quickly surrounded by those diverse Entities that had waited so patiently. It felt so good to watch that happen. The next moment, just like that, all of them were gone.
“It is done,” said the Warrior.
“She is fine now?” George asked, uncertain, and searching the Spirit Guardian’s mind through his eyes.
“It is so,” the Guide answered. “Go home, George Barnard,” he advised.
“You must be kidding! Under my own steam? You can’t just leave me here!” He doubted very much if his Spirit Self could drag his soul around at the speed of thought. He would need lots of help. But Ahbecetutu was gone. And George woke up the following morning, in his own bed, but with a lot of questions and few answers.
In his mind he heard Ahbecetutu say, “So, you don’t think we are doing a good enough job, eh, George Mathieu? That’s okay. We can handle a little criticism from a poorly informed mortal. Now see if you can do better. I’ll bring some of my mates around to witness your imminent failure. Oh, well, you did it... Just your luck you happened to know her, I guess.”
It was hard to ignore the fact that her stubbornness had kept her from moving on.
* * * * *
Who was Sister Eugenie? More to the point, what was Sister Eugenie? If this woman actually witnessed a preview of her own demise, way back then in that examination hall, every aspect of her crazy behavior can be explained. And why not? This universe is a treasure trove of ostensible impossibilities.
But that is only a theory.
All George Barnard is sure of is that he now knows a whole lot less than he thought he did. A theory is what he has and, sadly, nothing more.
Spirit Guardians like Ahbecetutu can’t dish it all up for us on a plate, fax us the details, or stick it all on the internet. We are evolutionary creatures, and must find out these things for ourselves. Supposedly, that’s half the fun.
Chances are that many of the voices the nun claimed to hear belonged to the likes of Ahbecetutu, or Andrea. But how would she know if she never managed to get a good look at the Guardians? If she never managed to reach out and touch them?
Fundamentalist teachings, religious dogma, would quickly override those visions. She might very well have crossed herself or thrown a fit if she saw Ahbecetutu in her convent. This armed Warrior of the Half-way Realm is truly awesome to behold.
As a species, we are distrustful, prejudiced. Those who talk to the Spirit Guardians of the Half-way Realm are shunned by others, often insulted, and called ‘Walk-ins’ — mindless creatures who will let any Spirit control their actions.
But Spirit Guardians don’t have puppets. They have students, and charges they protect. Their code of behavior is ethical, moral, also complex, but well-structured. And they care for all aspects of the complex human creature.
They are ‘all ways’ vouched for.
Let Go, And Let God -- 2
Set out below are two chapters dealing with what Midwayer Mathew describes as 'the decision to let Go, and let God.'
It does not always apply, but in this instance the woman was so heavily drugged, she needed someone (human) to help -- to tell her to move on.
This should be considered to be a healing, of a kind.
These two chapters are taken from my second book, "In the Service of 11:11."
Chapter Thirteen
The German Nun
Barnard was well on his way back to his factory, and from visiting Willis when the professor’s statements about similarity and difference finally became clear.
There sure was a parallelism between the Sutton and Jamieson events. Both dealt with some kind of aberration in the normal procedure of dying. Simple! That was easy to see. The incongruity was harder to pick up on, yet Barnard eventually worked it out.
Jennifer Sutton had still been breathing and yet the eternal Essence of her being had swiftly departed. Virginia Jamieson had drowned but her Soul Self had been unable to leave. It pointlessly stayed around. It was all so obvious now.
“I rather prefer to be a healer than a psychic undertaker,” Barnard joked aloud. “It’s so much better to keep body, mind, Spirit and soul together. And healthier.”
He did not expect an answer to the obvious, but felt the Guardians might not care a great deal about throw-away physical bodies. “Why should you care?” he asked.
He would soon learn that this was not the case. Far from it.
* * * * *
Professor Willis, ancient as he was, had once more out-thought and out-reasoned his student of long ago. Willis was one of the best teachers George Mathieu had ever known. If the professor paid him a compliment, it really meant something.
Compliments were few and far between. But if Willis was ‘having a go,’ as it was called, one really smarted. For George it was a double dilemma to be in Willis’ verbal firing line. The already older than average student still blushed like no other. That profuse blushing had been even worst in his high school days.
“Poor me,” he mumbled, remembering one of the worst embarrassments he ever suffered as a boy. “Actually, poor Jéjé. That strange nun was her teacher, not mine.” How fearful Jéjé had been of that sister Eugenie, he mused. Put that old woman out of your mind, Barnard, he thought. Work is waiting.
But the memory, and seemingly even her presence, would not leave him. The nun’s ‘ghost’ seemed to inhabit his workroom for the rest of the day.
Would this mental pre-occupation have something to do with Jehanne Colette? he wondered. There had been quite a few 11.11 courtesy wake-up calls. No, he thought, Jéjé is fine. That German nun? he considered.
That’s ridiculous!
* * * * *
Jehanne Colette, mostly referred to as Jéjé, was George’s only sister. Therefore, the attainment of favorite sister status was hardly a great achievement on her part, although the two were close. None of her brothers, except George Mathieu, resembled real people according to Jéjé’s frequently expressed opinion.
One might almost suggest Jéjé to have been a ring-in. Perhaps she had been adopted, George often thought, just so the family would have at least one girl. She was already so totally feminine, and out-of-place amongst the boys.
Gentle natured, she was an accomplished musician at age nine, and she began to fashion delightful dolls’ clothes by age ten. But, one had to be careful with her feelings. She was so easily hurt. And Jéjé worried about lots of things no one else would ever give a second’s thought.
George had long ago given in to holding Jéjé’s hand, all the way to her girls’ school. It was most embarrassing for the boy. He was, after all, already six years old! Somehow his sister needed that closeness, although she was always still peeved with him for his being a boy. It was likely the silent, peaceful youngster remained the least threatening to her of all her brothers. Almost from the day of his birth, she had spent much time with the infant, chatting away for hours, and perhaps still hoping he would one day turn into a girl.
Jehanne Colette did not perceive her world as a safe place. For the greater part of her childhood her country had been occupied by German invaders. And anything German was bad. Now the greatest threat to Jéjé’s happiness was Sister Eugenie, a German nun, who claimed the voice of the Good Lord could be heard inside everyone’s head. All one had to do was listen. She was an imposing, forbidding presence, and George’s sister was truly frightened of her.
Jéjé and little George would often hide behind the girls’ school’s privet hedge and spy on Sister Eugenie through the foliage. They would look at, and comment on, her furry moustache, her piercing eyes, her manly features, until the nun rang the school bell. Then they would both run to get to their classes in time, laughing all the way.
Sister Eugenie was really a nasty Emperor Penguin, Jéjé claimed. She was a black and white tent with an evil woman hiding inside it. She rapped her girls over the knuckles for just one Dutch word out of place, and that in a district where the ancient dialect changed about every five kilometers — going North, South, or East. George felt sorry for Jéjé, mostly for her being an only girl, but also for her having the villainous Sister Eugenie as a teacher for a whole year.
He had come to believe he was lucky to be a boy, and on his sister’s say so alone. Also because he would never have the miserable Sister Eugenie as a teacher. Little did he know their paths would cross... and more than once.
* * * * *
Their high school exams were brutally squeezed into two short days — sixteen subjects, no less. The English, Dutch, French, and German tests were split between written and verbal examinations, and that made it twenty exams all up. Too bad if you were not feeling too good. After three years of high school blood, sweat, and tears, that diploma was swinging on your performance of just those two short days. If it wasn’t actually legal, which it was, it would surely be criminal.
George was a healthy, but exhausted fourteen-year-old. He could have walked out on his last exam, German, verbal, and still held his position near the top of his class, even if he scored a big fat zero for ditching that last exam. He knew he had done really well, but German had remained the weakest of his languages. Thirty minutes of pressing his fatigued brain into action... Hell, why not? They would all be able to go home soon after that.
Someone found his name on the schedule. She pointed George to a table in the center of the big examination hall. And there she was, of all people: Sister Eugenie. Trust his flaming bad luck, the nun would be his examiner — surely one chance in a million. Already her all-seeing, forbidding eyes were on the young man.
Cautiously, gingerly, he approached her, and he politely greeted her in her native language. He greeted her co-examiner. There was no reply from either of them. That was unsettling. The young male examiner was lying back in his chair, eyes closed, his nose pointed at the ceiling. He was to take no part whatever in the conversation. That was wrong!
These two were both meant to keep the student on the go. That’s what they were being paid to do. But the nun’s sharp eyes were on George. She was looking right through him, silently, searching out his very soul. Fear pinned him to the ground, right there where he stood. If only the ground would swallow him up, for ever. He so wished it would.
Sister Eugenie blinked a few times. Again, she looked at him intently. Gradually, that stern look changed to apprehensive wonderment, then repulsion, then fear, then utter distress, and finally panic. And George sensed her feelings as if they were his own. My God! That was spooky! Who did she think he was? She was scaring the daylights out of him. Poor Jéjé, he thought. Life, during one long year of putting up with that evil woman must have been unbearable for that sweet girl, who always still needed so much tender care.
If Sister Eugenie had leaped from her chair, right then, right there, and had run off down the hall screaming, George would not have been surprised. Coming face to face with Satan himself could not have distorted her face any more than it was. The woman was panic-stricken, and all her feelings were also his. There were no facts.
Suddenly, there was a glimmer of recognition on her face. She visibly relaxed, and as she did, so did George. He felt it. She looked pleased and intrigued, happy now. Excited. Warm feelings of affection came from her mind. And he shared these feelings with her — they were her feelings, sure enough, but they also, instantly, became those of George Mathieu. Sister Eugenie had put his emotions on a giant see-saw, and the woman was scaring him half to death.
She stood and walked around the table. Larger than life, it seemed, she faced the young man. And then she hugged him. Him! George Barnard! That often blushing, shy, fourteen-year-old boy. Right there, smack in the middle of an examination hall full of people, he was being hugged, almost smothered, by the nun so many feared.
He knew he was blushing. Red as a beetroot he would be. Looking over his right shoulder at the crowd. No one was watching them. Thank Christ! He would never tell anyone of this till the day he died. If someone glanced up at him, he would deny it ever happened, or he would leave home for a distant shore.
And then, suddenly, she held him by the shoulders and at arm’s length. Pleased with him and proud of him, as if he was her long-lost relative, she was looking him up and down. So genuinely happy to see him, it seemed, she hugged him again. Fearful of her affection, he froze, blushing, praying she would let go of him. Looking over his left shoulder now, he noticed not a soul was looking in their direction. What a blessing! Thank the Dear Lord for small mercies!
Finally, she let go of him, and calmly pointed to his chair. The examination was about to begin. But he stammered and stuttered. His mind was a blank. Sister Eugenie, for all the genuine affection her soul contained, had destroyed every ounce of his self-confidence.
He had studied up on the German composers, their education system, their import/export figures, and much more, hoping to lead the conversation in that direction, and control it. It was all gone! Lost from his mind. Her crazy actions had ruined his memory, devastated his emotions, racked his feeble little mortal mind.
But she stuck with him. That encouraging smile never left her face. She was urging him on. Helping him along, making suggestions, calmly, systematically. Then it happened.
That German verbal examination, despite some ten minutes of wasted time, became the example of what a verbal exam should be like — rapid-fire communication. He would have never believed himself to be capable of that. There was no higher mark on his high school diploma than his score of that short session. And there was more.
During the few remaining weeks of schooling left to complete, after the examination days, he surprised everyone, including teachers and himself, with what had happened to his command of that language. A quantum leap of progress had been made. As well, Sister Eugenie’s mild, though distinct, Bavarian accent was an unshakeable part of this new-found expertise.
Young as he was, he suspected, believed, there to have been a hard-to-explain, coalescence of minds. A blending of minds, for want of a better explanation. He felt she knew exactly what had happened.
Jéjé Barnard probably never figured out how clever this woman really was. Sister Eugenie might well have heard the voice of God inside her own head. George still doesn’t really know what happened during that afternoon.
It was weird, awfully weird. For many years, he tried to lock it out of his mind. What fourteen-year-old boy would want to relate to a nun? Jeez! You’d have to have a really big problem if you did.
* * * * *
George’s Dutch grandpa was a dowser. He was good at it, and his services were much in demand. For the price of a cigar and a cup of coffee, Grandpa would find you an underground stream of ‘sweet water’ and tell you how many arm’s lengths below the surface it was. All he needed was a fresh, forked willow branch.
That branch ‘told’ Grandpa what he wanted to know. It even told him where you could find your lost wedding band. The branch would wiggle up and down when pointed in the right direction, even if the item of jewelry was high up in a thieving magpie’s nest.
Doing things like that made Grandpa a very respectable person in the district.
His second youngest daughter, George’s Mama, had a huge repertoire of psychic abilities, but not all of them were greatly reliable. She could, however, tell at a glance if a pregnant woman was carrying a girl, or a boy. Unerringly, also, she predicted the weather, a week or so in advance. And if she heard of a missing child, anywhere at all, she would instantly know if it was alive or dead, drowned in a well, or canal, or safely back with its mother the next day.
Knowing these things made George’s mother a very respectable person.
Despite the fact these gifts somehow endlessly bothered George’s Papa, he had married her, and always loved her very much. But it would be fair to say that he ‘came down hard’ on his George Mathieu.
Views of a distant future were pipe-dreams. Predictions of who would visit the following day were coincidental ‘hits’. Information the boy gathered in astral flight were simply dreams to the father.
Over and over, Theodore Barnard denied the proven accuracy of the boy’s ‘other-time-frame’ observations. And if his son ever woke up to the real world, he might actually achieve something one day.
Doing what he did, did not make George a respectable small person.
His Papa would never hear about what that crazy Sister Eugenie had done. Not from his son. George had long ago clamed up. Somehow, some way, he would figure it all out for himself. He had to. The need to know was an all-engaging compulsion that drove his mind to explore.
The sister Eugenie enigma was still bouncing around inside his skull, looking for an answer.
Chapter Fourteen
“You Must Let Go.”
As the principal of a very large girls’ school, placed in that position of authority by the order to which she belonged, Sister Eugenie could hardly be seen as a crackpot. She was efficient, and the attained level of education rose dramatically under her guidance, whilst she still managed to teach her own class full time.
How nuts could the woman be?
She was in her middle fifties when she so greatly embarrassed George, in her late thirties when she proclaimed to her class the voice of the Creator could be clearly heard.
If she was listening to the voice of her own Spirit Self, her statement could hardly be said to be totally untrue. Sister Eugenie, George presumed, had achieved that difficult, but attainable, balance. That balance where Spirit and mind have gone into a most profitable enterprise together. Time and Eternity were pooling their individual resources to realize a common goal. George would be witness to the reality of the existence of the end product of their combined labors.
He just didn’t know it yet.
* * * * *
He had had enough for the day. At three-thirty in the afternoon, he did not want to remain in his factory. He wanted to go home, play with his children and talk to the Spirit Guardians.
“It is the old story, Bzutu,” George suggested to the Guardian. “If the mountain will not come to Mohammad, the Prophet himself must go to the mountain. So, here I am. Got you, at last. This planet swarms with mortals in plague proportions, and there are no more places for you to hide. But good Spirit Guardians are hard to find.”
A little humor might cheer him up, George thought. What a dumb, optimistic assertion that turned out to be.
It had been a lengthy job finding Ahbecetutu, thirty minutes of diligent searching in a trance. He felt the Guardian might have been busy elsewhere, and he had gone to look for him instead of waiting for him to make his presence felt. Wherever it was, George had now arrived. They could be anywhere at all. George could only just make him out. But the ancient Sentinel was clearly not enthralled, neither by his presence, nor by his jokes.
“It was only yesterday, when we jumped from the trees and scuttled about on all fours,” the mortal reminded the Spirit Guardian. “How rich do you expect our humor to be, Bzutu? Give us time to evolve. Meanwhile, give us a little credit for trying to be entertaining,” he suggested.
The look on his face told of his feelings as the mighty Warrior turned to face him and seemed to sigh. The spear, that most deadly looking weapon, was switched from his right hand to his left. George so hoped he did not want to poke it in his direction. That awesome, shimmering, business end of the spear still worried him, each time he faced the Warrior.
“So many wake-up calls,” he reminded Ahbecetutu, “What are they about, my Friend?”
“We guide you,” came the mind-to-mind answer.
“Have you popped the details in my mind already?” George asked.
“It is done,” the Guide’s answer came.
“I’m only human. I have concerns about what I am in for next, Bzutu,” the mortal admitted. “Even our own shadows make us jump, you know. Now... that would never happen to you, would it now?”
Even before he had said it, the Guardian was smiling. At last. But it was mostly to make his pet mortal feel good, George figured. As always, the Spirit Warrior was reading his mind. Only George’s fickle, spur-of-the-moment flashes had ever surprised him in the past.
“You spoil all my jokes by picking my brain,” the human complained. “And I still don’t know what those wake-up calls are all about. Can’t you let the occasional cat out of the bag?”
“You know very soon,” the Guardian’s mind told him.
George nodded, pensively. He knew it was probably best not to know, and just let it happen. Ahbecetutu knew he was just another curious human. The Spirit understood the concept of apprehension, he did not comprehend the feelings that came with it. Fear was to be dealt with, apprehension about the future was such a waste of time, energy, emotions.
“I will try to have a little more faith,” George suggested. “I know you Guys will always look after us.”
“Ever”, came the instant mind-to-mind reply. Ahbecetutu’s attention was needed elsewhere on the planet. Duty called. He needed to send George away.
“Give everyone my love,” George told him quickly. “Their favorite pet vertebrate greets them all. Now quickly tell me the winners of the first three harness races for tonight, old Friend,” Barnard suggested jokingly. “Please, Bzutu? I like to win.”
“We guide you!” came the impatient, spoken answer.
“I’ll split my winnings with you,” the mortal laughed.
“Sleep. We guide you.” Ahbecetutu was gone. Or George was back. Whichever. It was hard to say where in time and space the two minds had met.
“Okay! Okay!” Don’t try bribery, he thought. This Warrior can never be bought. And do as you’re flipping well told, when you’re told and how you’re told.
* * * * *
That very same night, George was looking the Spirit Guardian in the eyes. He could see him as clear as day now. Standing right beside him, he appeared to be quite pleased with George — the Warrior’s very own mortal apprentice. This was much better than a few days ago at San Francisco’s bay. Excellent perception!
And no doubt, the large group of Entities surrounding someone’s deathbed were lending their minds to the entire procedure. George could never achieve this level of observation by himself. That was obvious.
He eyed the group cautiously. Not until that night did he ever see so many Spirits in one crowd. Some were no bigger than a four-year-old child, some were much bigger than the human. There were two of most of them, but not of all. They were clever! Here was millions of IQ in mind power gathered in one place. Smart as they were, they weren’t looking down on a mere mortal. These twelve, perhaps fourteen or more Spirit Onlookers had respect for all creatures.
Some of them seemed to be standing inside the stones of the wall, just to be able to surround Sister Eugenie at the head of her bed. She was dying, and clinging to life, both. And if you didn’t know that it was Sister Eugenie, no one would blame you, but George already knew it was she. She knew someone had arrived, though her eyes were closed. She didn’t know who it was that had come to visit her. Suddenly George had doubts, and he reached out momentarily to touch Ahbecetutu’s shoulder.
“We are in Bavaria?” the mortal asked.
“We are all here,” the Spirit Guide answered. Moments later George glimpsed the rolling green hills, some barren, harvested rye fields, then a view of the convent from the outside. Next up, he was back inside the room. He needed to think. If it’s midnight on the other side, late Spring on the bottom of the world, it must be daytime in Bavaria and late Autumn on the top of the world. The rye is already harvested.
It all seemed to fit.
“This is not a lucid dream, eh, Bzutu?” he asked, just to make sure. “And this is ‘now’ time? Professor Willis said I must know where, and when in time I am.”
“We are all here,” the Spirit Guardian repeated. “And this is now.”
George walked closer to the bed. He needed to take in the material scene. This time, he felt unrushed. There was a young sister, dressed in all white, to Sister Eugenie’s right. One would call her a novice, he thought. There was an old nun close to the patient at her left. These two had long been friends, but she would not hold the dying patient’s hand, and Sister Eugenie needed that. Pumped full of morphine, all her powerful beliefs had become uncertainties. She knew she was dying, but she was now afraid to go on with it.
George wondered what was killing her, apart from old age. Instantly, he could see it all. A worn-out body. And a network of intrusive tissue had invaded her body, more so on her left than on her right. Stacks of it! Of herself, there was nearly nothing left. Triggered by a shortage of trace elements and a defunct immune system, for sure, it looked like cancer, but it was the wrong color. It was white. Cancer was black, and pale brown if it was benign, but likely to turn malignant in the future. He had seen both, and many times.
He turned back to the Warrior. “Bzutu, is that cancer of the lymphatic system?” he asked.
“It is so,” the Guide answered.
George needed to know more. “My body and brain are in my bed?” he suggested. “The rest of me is here, yes?” he asked. “That will explain things for me.”
“It is so,” the Spirit Guardian answered him again.
Someone was looking after his body, he felt sure of that now. It was being cared for on life-support. It meant his Spirit Self, mind and soul, complete with identity and personality, had made the trip halfway around the globe. Sister Eugenie would recognize him for sure.
“Pretty clever of you to get the lot of me transported out here,” George complimented Ahbecetutu. But the Guardian didn’t want to confirm all that.
“Go about your task,” Ahbecetutu ordered. George’s questioning, it seemed, was holding up the procedure for the entire congregation.
“You have to let go now and die,” the Guardian’s apprentice told the nun. “You’ll be fine. It’s easy. Just let go.” Strangely, she was unaware of any of his Spirit Friends being present. Spirit Entities have no souls, perhaps, George thought. But the woman didn’t trust George either. She had been hanging in there for days with the stubbornness of that powerful mind of hers.
I will think in German and let her read my mind, he thought. Forgive me for neglecting that language, he prayed. But it was so easy! It was still there, all of it.
“Remember Jéjé Barnard,” his mind told her. “You must remember Jehanne Colette Barnard, the shy girl with all those brothers.” That wasn’t helping much. “You taught her for many years, Jehanne Colette. In the Netherlands. Remember? Try to remember.”
They were getting nowhere fast. Some fool had drugged the old dear right out of her loving mind. They would be there for ever and one more day at the rate it was going.
It seemed crazy for him to be talking someone into giving it all a miss. Generally, he was convincing people to hang in there. This was one for the books.
“You’re holding up all spiritual progress in the whole universe, Sister Eugenie,” he told her. “A bus-load of Guardian Angels is waiting to take you home,” he suggested. But she didn’t trust him, and still didn’t know him.
“How old are you?” he asked.
She wasn’t sure. Eighty-seven or seventy-eight. She got that all muddled up. That would be eighty-seven, George guessed. She had worked in the Netherlands until she became forgetful, then she had returned home to her convent. At least, she knew that much. Alzheimer’s disease, cooking with aluminum pans, perhaps, had played havoc with her brain and mind. The morphine was doing the rest.
“You know me,” he tried to convince her. “You know me very well. You know me, and you know you can trust me. I’m telling you, there are many Guardian Angels waiting for you. All you must do is let go.”
He looked at the group and smiled nervously at them. He had no idea what, and who they all were. They might feel insulted by being called Guardian Angels. But they sure weren’t complaining, or talking to him.
“You know me,” he carried on. “You made a total exhibition of yourself, hugging me inside that examination hall.” He thought he would probably blush if he could.
Suddenly, there was a glimmer of recognition in her mind. She knew what she had done on that day, so long ago. She knew, but it was faint. Again and again, his mind took her back in time to the crazy thing she had done. Again and again, he told her she was safe. Time after time, he urged her to let go.
Then, she did let go. Hallelujah! At last. In a blink she was dead. And the ‘Essence’ that arose from her body was quickly surrounded by those diverse Entities that had waited so patiently. It felt so good to watch that happen. The next moment, just like that, all of them were gone.
“It is done,” said the Warrior.
“She is fine now?” George asked, uncertain, and searching the Spirit Guardian’s mind through his eyes.
“It is so,” the Guide answered. “Go home, George Barnard,” he advised.
“You must be kidding! Under my own steam? You can’t just leave me here!” He doubted very much if his Spirit Self could drag his soul around at the speed of thought. He would need lots of help. But Ahbecetutu was gone. And George woke up the following morning, in his own bed, but with a lot of questions and few answers.
In his mind he heard Ahbecetutu say, “So, you don’t think we are doing a good enough job, eh, George Mathieu? That’s okay. We can handle a little criticism from a poorly informed mortal. Now see if you can do better. I’ll bring some of my mates around to witness your imminent failure. Oh, well, you did it... Just your luck you happened to know her, I guess.”
It was hard to ignore the fact that her stubbornness had kept her from moving on.
* * * * *
Who was Sister Eugenie? More to the point, what was Sister Eugenie? If this woman actually witnessed a preview of her own demise, way back then in that examination hall, every aspect of her crazy behavior can be explained. And why not? This universe is a treasure trove of ostensible impossibilities.
But that is only a theory.
All George Barnard is sure of is that he now knows a whole lot less than he thought he did. A theory is what he has and, sadly, nothing more.
Spirit Guardians like Ahbecetutu can’t dish it all up for us on a plate, fax us the details, or stick it all on the internet. We are evolutionary creatures, and must find out these things for ourselves. Supposedly, that’s half the fun.
Chances are that many of the voices the nun claimed to hear belonged to the likes of Ahbecetutu, or Andrea. But how would she know if she never managed to get a good look at the Guardians? If she never managed to reach out and touch them?
Fundamentalist teachings, religious dogma, would quickly override those visions. She might very well have crossed herself or thrown a fit if she saw Ahbecetutu in her convent. This armed Warrior of the Half-way Realm is truly awesome to behold.
As a species, we are distrustful, prejudiced. Those who talk to the Spirit Guardians of the Half-way Realm are shunned by others, often insulted, and called ‘Walk-ins’ — mindless creatures who will let any Spirit control their actions.
But Spirit Guardians don’t have puppets. They have students, and charges they protect. Their code of behavior is ethical, moral, also complex, but well-structured. And they care for all aspects of the complex human creature.
They are ‘all ways’ vouched for.