Ode to Andréa.
From the Desk of George Barnard.
A Loyal Primary Midwayer.
“I Am Ah-Bé-Cé-Two-Two!”
Already I had tried to convince the red-skinned warrior I saw before me, that he was quite dead – certainly no longer human, most likely a ghost. Nothing I could say would convince him of his long-ago demise.
“I AM warrior! I AM chief! I AM shaman! I AM teacher!” he told me. I AM Ah-Bé-Cé-Two-Two!”
He was using my vocabulary – at the time a ‘sad’ mixture of French and English.
Yeah right! And I’m Mickey Mouse, I thought.
This well-armed warrior was not going to leave Australia to return to North America. He did not want to look for his tribe, his teepee, hunting grounds, or dig up his grave with moldy old bones. He did not require confirmation of his time-distant passing on, and he was not going to collect a busload of his kind for his ‘Seraphic Superiors’ to ship them off to Heaven, wholesale.
Ghosts can be so darned stubborn!
Quickly renamed ‘Bzutu’ for short, the Spirit Guardian had adopted me as well as his new name, it seemed. He would stick around and teach me a thing or two, although more likely confuse me, I mused.
What Red Man in his right mind would claim to have been born in Turkey at the shores of Lake Van? Not in all my years did I counsel a patient who had so lost the all-important storyline. It would be a challenge, and then some, to heal him.
“Don’t you go frightening my children,” I later warned them all. “Any of you guys!”
Four of these strange ‘ghosts’ all seemed to want to be my friends.
“The Creature Is Androgynous.”
Introductions were now in order.
Ah-Bé-Cé-Two-Two directed my attention to a new arrival. She, or he, was seated in a solid wooden chair, the side of which showed excellent carving work. It depicted an easily recognized quetzal bird. Although the creature’s image was quite clear, it was gray, indicating she was even more time-distant than the Red Man. This one would have to be even deader than dead, I thought.
This had to be the ghost of someone who had died ages ago, I felt. “And no, Bzutu, I don’t want her telephone number,” I told the warrior. “It must have been disconnected ages ago.” It had to be defunct, I thought. It was one digit short, and there was not a single number I knew of that started with 4-5-6.
Obviously, these poor guys were all ‘living in the past’.
“The creature is androgynous,” I was being told, but I misunderstood the remark.
I studied ‘the subject’ in detail. Here was someone with rather large breasts, but also with a distinctive, although sparse beard. I was perplexed.
As old as she/he might likely be, and looking like she/he did, it could not have been a very happy past for this persona to look back on in this world.
“People Have Names, And Ghosts Have Names.”
“Telephone numbers aren’t good enough,” I told the warrior. “Only God would know what country this one came from, and I’m not going to pay for international telephone calls. That telephone line has long been dead, just like…”
The warrior agreed.
I needed to explain something to him: “Andro-something what? I don’t get it. André can’t be right, although this could be a Frenchie, and Andrea isn’t right either. I’ll call her André-a, since she is half of each sex. Everybody needs a name. People have names, and ghosts have names. It goes without saying. Or nicknames. Man! You would not believe how my name gets mutilated in this country!”
There was a broad smile from the warrior. He seemed to have forgotten his past, but miraculously retained his sense of humor. That was a good sign, and likely proof of his being treatable. Excellent progress here!
Disconnected telephones were of no use. At least he figured that much. I would make him all better. Counsel him for free.
Months later, yet a fifth “Spirit Guardian” made his presence felt by announcing himself as “Emenohwate”. He, too, needed a proper name, I insisted, and he was renamed, “Dr. Mendoza”.
Days later, I broke the obvious alphabetical/numerical code.
A New Family.
Broad-shouldered, businesslike Ah-Bé-Cé-Two-Two, Bzutu, or ABC-22 had ‘traveled with the Red People’. For millennia he had been the Spiritual Guide of the Kiowa/Comanche, but there were not many of ‘these red humans’ left. As well, not too many of them would listen to his subliminal messages anymore, even his clearly spoken words. I could ‘borrow’ him when needed, but he was on sentinel duty, also, and he did have other students besides. His lightning-fast international travel required no passport, or visas. Such joy!
The gorgeous Cro-Magnon-blue Simone, Sharmon, or MNO-6, was the platoon’s now-you-see-her-now-you-don’t messenger, with an infectious sense of humor – the absolute clown of the midway realm. She would never be far away, and most often spread out on the plush clinic carpet. She was obviously family, quite at home, always in a good mood.
Dr. Mendoza, or MNO-8, was the psychologist/physiologist workaholic of the platoon. In his brown suit, white shirt, dark brown tie, dark brown shoes and a white doctor’s coat, he looked every inch a medic of great knowledge. That stethoscope around his neck was what allowed him to get away with materializing in many hospitals and clinics, and more than a few of my patients described his Mediterranean looks really well.
The one with a number/name as long as your arm – one I generously awarded the name, ‘JULIETTE’ was one of two Destiny Guardians. Although always on duty, yet hardly ever seen, I believed she/he was quite alone, part of the 11:11 platoon, but not in charge of me.
The Primary Midwayer, Andréa was the least understood of all. She had nothing to say at all, and seemingly did not involve herself with the work.
“Everybody Has A Job.”
In the weeks that followed, there was ample time to get to know them all better. During the evenings, and mostly in my semi-darkened clinic, I conversed with these “Spirit Guardians”, and learned more about them.
Surprisingly, they were not in my employ. I was in their employ, unpaid employ at that, but they were helpful to me, even in business.
Their time prompts were 11:11 AM, or 11:11 PM, and since we all strove for progress, we henceforth called ourselves “The 11:11 Progress Platoon”.
An ‘operation’ had been performed on me, I was told. “As for Blaise Pascal, so for George Barnard,” came the information, and that was the reason why I could see them, as well as hear them. It would be a long time before I realized they were using my vocabulary – a mix-up of four languages – and the main reason for many misunderstandings.
To me, however, the remaining unknown quantity was Andrea. She turned up every time, and yet, she seemed to not ever get involved with the work we all performed as a platoon.
Her androgyny also bothered me.
“Everybody has a job,” I told her. “If you are going to be lazy and do nothing around here, perhaps you had better leave. Leave us to it.”
I had no idea how important were her backwards-and-forwards communications with the Seraphic Forces for Progress they were all responsible to.
A Malfunctioning Platoon.
By this time André-a had been made an honorary female, and I changed her name to Andréa, later to Andrea, since English, rather than French had become our regular ‘fare’. She made an attempt to talk with me directly. “I am a virgin of the Gods,” she told me. She was created that way, and unable to procreate.
My thoughts were that there was no accounting for either taste, or fairness in Heaven, but I was not to argue. If God wanted them that way, He could ‘make’ them that way.
Nothing much changed. She tried again later. She stood and told me, “I go to the East in ships with the others. I am a servant at the court of the one you now know as Kontiki Viracocha. I am also long active in Greece.”
She had been shaking uncontrollably with the effort of getting through to me. I could only feel sorry for this poor ‘old’ Spirit Guardian. She seemed to be suffering from arthritis, I mistakenly concluded.
Little did I realize she had expanded enormous amounts of energy in reaching down to my lowly level. But to be ‘long active’ in Greece, then ‘go to the East in ships’ would land her in Turkey, not in South America.
“How confused you are, Andréa,” I told her.
From that time on, she would turn up, but not show herself. I would always still greet her kindly, sensing her to be around, but I would not again see her for years.
My ambiguous attitude was doing harm to the efficient functioning of the platoon.
A Drastic Turnaround.
With a niggling feeling about the safety of my three children, to be left in Australia, whilst my wife and I traveled overseas, I consulted the Spirit Guardians about the future. This time, both the warrior and Andrea turned up. Bzutu refused to face me, and it was Andrea who had a message for me. Once again she went through the agonizing ritual of standing, facing me. She said, “Change your plans, or you surely lose the one you love.” She added, “Grave danger!”
Grave as in serious, and grave as in burial. The message wasn’t lost on me. My only son would drown, whilst his parents were both overseas. The message had come ‘from far in time, far in space,’ I was later informed. It was Paradise-generated data that had been beamed down to this planet.
The precise circumstances of his potential pre-mature demise were later shown in full color. We changed our plans, and took the three nippers along with us.
Things improved greatly after that event of 1975. The warrior was pleased, and I, too, thought we were doing just fine.
Clearing The Air
Much has changed in recent years. There’s lots of additional energy for the Midwayers to thrive on. Together with five others of her kind, Primary Midwayer, Andrea, can communicate with us directly. She does so too with other members of what is now the 11:11 Angels, no longer the 11:11 Progress Platoon.
Direct communications between us, and Primary Midwayers is almost unheard of, but she comes through fluently. Not only has she been granted extra ‘energy’ over and above what others have been granted, she also claims that my forcing her to speak up enhanced her innate talents. A curious matter.
Then she claims she did not hold my rudeness against me, but that it was I who had not forgiven myself for being rude to her -- an interesting dilemma! It is for this counselor. Also, it is a great measure of their infinite love for us.
On February 10, 2003, she notes: “I do believe, also, that you have since acquired a greater appreciation for the explicit function that I have within the group. And largely through the regular communications, and over these years with you at the receiving end, can I now say that my innate talents in communication have also been greatly enhanced.
“Your dogged persistence, and unrealistic expectations, that I should be involved in all aspects of the group’s work is much the reason for my advancement as a direct contact with you, with many others on this globe, and in many languages.”
Earlier in the conversation (transmission) she noted: “It was I, who without the benefit of the advice of our seraphic associates, decided that this (my rude demand for her to leave) was a mere hiccup in our association, and that the work, long ago commenced, was to carry on. I do believe we have now put this issue to rest, or that we will do so, just as soon as you allow yourself to be forgiven as you forgive others.”
It took me a long time to acknowledge that, indeed, I had not forgiven myself for being so rude to her in my younger years.
It was an eye opener to have this pointed out.
That’s Our Andrea
The Primary Midwayer, Andrea, is one of the most respected communicators in this new age -- known as the Correcting Time to those who ‘speak with the Spirits’. She is ‘right up there’ with the vanguard of spiritual contact in the English-speaking world.
On most worlds their task is to hobnob it with the spirit visitors from outlying worlds and universes, but Andrea’s preferred employment is to busy herself with the ‘thinking vertebrates’ she calls her children – mere mortals – and she does so in an untold number of languages.
Together with some 49,998 of her sisters, she has lived on this planet for 500,000 years. They are the permanent citizens of this green-blue rock in space, and are likely to be here for millennia more to come.
Until we become civilized.
All that is here documented is just a part of her life’s story.
That’s our Andrea.
© 11:11 Progress Group.