Sunday School

LANTERN TIMEGLASS JOURNAL

Sunday 25 September 2016

* * * Special Presentation * * *

SUNDAY SCHOOL

Spiritual Science Fiction

Short Story by Jim Lantern

Includes Ancient Aliens, Reincarnation, Religion, and a hint of Romance

Imagine what Sunday School might be like in The Twilight Zone

Planet Earth, United States of America, Kansas, Kansas City.

Hawthorn Hills, Harrow house.

6:00am CT, “Mother’s Day” Sunday, 12 May 1963 CE.

Dreams, barely remembered upon awakening.

Nightmares, never to be forgotten.

As usual, I awakened on a Sunday without the aid of an alarm clock, before any other members of my family.

I looked at the poster-size calendar hanging on the wall near my bed. Each month included an artist’s concept of one of the planets of the solar system, including the sun and the moon, as well as the asteroids belt.

That was the second Sunday in May of 1963, Mother’s Day.

I realized then that I’d only have to attend the first grade of public elementary school for only about three more weeks. I had not enjoyed my first year of school at all, and so I very much looked forward to enjoying my freedom during the summer of ’63. My best friends lived in the Hawthorn Hills neighborhood, and all of them went to private schools – Catholic. I had a few good friends at public school, but I was not well treated by the majority of students and teachers. Sunday school was worse. I had no friends at the church my family attended. I liked the pastor. But the Sunday school teacher, who taught the class for kids my age – I believed her to be insane, and she was passing her insanity on to the other students. I was not as easily hoodwinked as the others were. I did not fit in there. Where I fit in was a question that had been bugging me for some time.

That early on a Sunday, it wasn’t time yet to get dressed for Sunday school and church. I put on my robe over my pajamas, and then stepped into my house slippers. Quietly, I left my private bedroom, and then walked down the hallway toward the kitchen.

In the kitchen, I pulled a chair over to a counter, and climbed up on the chair to reach a large box of cold cereal in a cabinet. While up there, I also reached for a plastic bowl. I obtained a spoon from a drawer on the way down. A glass jug of milk from the refrigerator was next. Then I sat on a bar stool over at the breakfast bar. There, I added just a few large spoonfuls of real sugar to the milk and cereal in the bowl. My sister – four years older than me at age 11 – I was age 7 then – would sometimes ask me about how many truckloads of sugar I put on my cereal. Well, sometimes, I did have some cold cereal and milk with my sugar. It would be two more years before I’d be diagnosed with fluctuating blood glucose balance disorder – hypoglycemia – opposite of being diabetic. A genetic disorder . . . or a genetic difference in RNA carried by DNA. It tied in with my already diagnosed bronchial asthma and allergies. My sister, claiming me to be an alien, further joked that I’d suffer the same fate as the Martians in the War of the Worlds story ending – original 1953 movie.

My regular routine for Sunday mornings. I had the usual cold breakfast before the usual hot breakfast. My father always fixed the hot breakfast on Sundays, so that my mother could have extra time to sleep. By 7:30am, dad would start fixing the scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, and orange juice squeezed from fresh oranges. Before having any of those items, my father and sister would split a grapefruit. That was their usual routine. I’d try, without much success, to avoid being squirted in my eyes, each time they would stab their spoons into a section of the grapefruit. My sister, Lucy, was getting much better with improving her aim, I discovered.  I had no other sisters, and I had no brothers.

Getting dressed on Sundays was a bit more complicated than other days of the week. School days were not really too difficult. I was free on Saturdays to dress for my own interests. On Sunday, I was required by my father to wear a three-piece suit, a tie, and very polished shoes.

My father, who was Michael Richard Harrow, was not just a basic Christian, but also a conservative Republican, and sole owner of the Harrow-Wells Oil Company. It was passed down to him from his father, John William Harrow, whose business partner was Robert Paul “Blackstone” Wells. They started the business with just one well back during 1935. John and Bob were killed during 1949 when their small plane crashed. However, the body of Wells was not found at the crash site . . . was never found. A local newspaper reporter remarked about the body of Wells, who was an amateur but very good magician on-the-side, had vanished. He had no wife, no children, so the oil business was legally passed down to my father.

My brown hair was real short at that time, so it was not necessary for me to spend much time getting it to look just right, unlike my mother and sister. My father didn’t have to spend much time fixing his hair.

There was no need for us to hurry to get ready. We would not need to be at the church until a few minutes before 10:00am. My father was the church treasurer that year. He would work on the financial books and relating paperwork while most of the adult members would attend their own bible study classes in the basement of the main building of the church. During that first hour, all of the children and teens would assemble in the basement of a separate neighboring building. There we mainly engaged in singing a variety of religious songs. Then the children and teens would attend Sunday school classes, a different room for each different age, on the ground level of the building. At that same time, 11:00am, the main church service for adults would begin in the huge auditorium on the ground level of the main building. That year, our church had about 300 adult members. I’m not sure how many children and teens. A Christian Church partly associated with the national and worldwide Unity Churches. It was named the Well of the Souls Church. Not surprising, most of the members were in the oil business.

Until it was time to leave for church, my father usually read the newspaper. After getting ready, my sister would read the comics section, and my mother would search for any useful coupons. I would spend that part of the morning pursuing a variety of interests, and thinking about how I’d spend the rest of the day after attending church. We would usually stop and get hamburgers, fries, and malts, on the way home. Then I’d have the afternoon free to play outside, or play in my room, or watch sports on TV with my father. We usually went out for a fried chicken dinner. After that, there would be a couple of good shows on TV. For a long time, nearly every Sunday was like that.

By the way, Lucy Harrow, my sister, was a lot like Lucille “Lucy” van Pelt in the Peanuts comic strip, whose younger brother is Linus van Pelt. I don’t claim to be like Linus. Lucy, my sister, did refer to my best friend neighbor, Dean Charles Kay, same age as me, as being like Charlie Brown.

My father had some drafting tools, and would let me use them to do a lot of drawing in my free time. I liked to draw landscapes and maps, but the end results did not look like anything of this world. That Sunday morning, while dad, mother, and Lucy were dividing up the newspaper, I made a drawing of a small city surrounded by farmlands. While I worked on the map, I thought about the events of the past week at the public elementary school, and how it related to attending Sunday school.

Monday through Friday, I attended the Great Plains Elementary School for students who lived in our area. My father, would leave the house every work day with his briefcase full of papers, and drive to his office. I would leave the house at about the same time as my father, carrying my miniature version of his briefcase, full of homework and schoolbooks. I had to ride a school bus with children who were enthusiastically interested in the total destruction of my homework papers and drawings. At that time, going to school, I believed, was just like going to work.

It was okay to work Monday through Friday, but not on Saturdays, and certainly not on Sundays. However, Saturday mornings, my father would sometimes go to his office for a couple of hours, or go tour some of the nearby well locations of his company. He would often take me with him. Otherwise I was free to do most anything I wanted to do during Saturday afternoons and evenings. Also, I was free to stay up as late as I wanted to on Saturday nights. It was a Saturday night when my sister introduced me to science fiction by talking me into watching with her the 1951 movie The Day The Earth Stood Still. That was 3 March 1962, when it was broadcast on TV. NBC Saturday Night at the Movies premiered in September 1961 when I was 5 years old and began attending kindergarten at the public school. I turned age 6 on 5 March 1962, which was a Monday.

Sunday school was becoming complicated, and more like elementary school work. From my viewpoint, I believed it was becoming a significant contradiction. It was my understanding that we were not to work on Sundays, reserving that day for praying and worshiping, and resting and relaxing. I’d often hear it described as “a day of rest”—but there was nothing restful about it. And I wondered, considering sports on TV, what about athletes in sports?—they certainly don’t get to rest! More and more, I was enjoying Sunday school less and less. I discovered it to be full of what I considered to be contradictions in logic. However, I still liked the sermons at the 11:00am main service. Rarely, children were allowed to attend the adult service with their parents, but because my father was church treasurer that year I got to attend the adult service with him a few times. I liked what the pastor was teaching the adults, because it usually made good sense. I didn’t like what the Sunday school teacher was teaching the students my age, because it usually made no sense at all. I believed something to be wrong with her mind. And soul.

I think perhaps the most outrageous claim ever made by that Sunday school teacher was that all of my friends, who did not attend that same church, even if they attended any other kinds of churches, and were good Christians, were all going to “fry in hell.” She claimed “Only children who attend our church can be saved and go to heaven.” When she made that claim, she clearly crossed a certain line. Her arrogance angered me. I told my girlfriend. Yes, I had a girlfriend at age 7. She lived in the house behind my house. Her father was the pastor at a Baptist church. She told him. He called the pastor of the church I attended. Then the pastor of the church I attended eventually fired the Sunday school teacher who made that false claim.

There was also the teaching about all men created equal. Some years later, it would be changed to all people created equal to include women. Even so, the focus was still on material and physical values, rather than the spiritual. Still, the people remained unequal in material and physical matters. The equality subject was and still is one of the greatest contradictions. No one is equal, unless perhaps they are all equally different. That I could accept. I then recalled an incident at the public elementary school . . . a couple of them actually . . . the week before that Sunday…

At lunch, the cafeteria workers, who were adults, some of them parents of students there, served a smaller portion of food to me. I was told that big boys need bigger portions, because they are bigger. It never occurred to those idiots that the smaller students needed more food so that they could become bigger. Discrimination against size, being one of the oldest forms of discrimination.

Likewise, flowers were being handed out to all students to take home to their mothers for Mother’s Day in 1963. The tallest, not just the oldest students, got first pick for the best flowers. What was left for me to choose from would not survive the bus trip home anyway.

Earlier the past week, I had to go to a new doctor for my allergies, and was told to stay away from flowering plants, anyway. Testing determined me to be highly allergic to certain pollen, grasses, molds, dusts, cat hair, horsehair, hay, and a few other things. New medicine had been prescribed. I noticed that it tended to heighten my senses. I had to take some of it that Sunday morning, just before we left the house to go to church. There might have been some unusual side effects . . . or . . . I really was contacted by an angelic being who referred to himself as the Ambassador to Earth from the Realm of Heaven

+

We left the house about 9:30am, and got into my father’s Morris Minor station wagon.

It would take about fifteen minutes to get to the church from our house. The car had a full tank of gas. There would be no stops.

It was a warm, sunny morning, with only a few clouds in the light blue sky. A slight breeze out of the southwest.

My father could have driven west, into another community with a small commercial area, then north to our church. Instead, he drove north on the primary country road, out of our rural area, and then west on another primary road. I guessed he wanted to avoid traffic, and take advantage of the faster speed allowed on those roads. Our usual route. In the future, as our community expanded, the land we drove across would become mainly a commercial area, some residential mixed in, industrial further north.

I had already told my mother “Happy Mother’s Day!” and gave her a card at breakfast. I made the card. I liked doing art like that. During the start of the drive to the church, I happened to ask, “Is there a Grandmother’s Day?” I really didn’t get a straight answer to that question.

“My mother and father, your maternal grandparents,” my mother told me, “are meeting us at the church this Mother’s Day. After church, we are going to meet them at a restaurant. Then we might all go to—” some kind of gardens or arboretum I don’t now remember the name of. She added, “That is why I had you take extra asthma and allergy medicine this morning. We will probably spend the afternoon there.”

Right about then, Lucy shouted, “Look, Thomas!”

“What?” I asked, “Where?”

She pointed, and answered, “The haunted house!”

It was an old, abandoned farmhouse. No paint. Falling apart. Windows broken out. Front steps and porch collapsed into a pile of rubble.

“It has been there for a very long time.” my mother remarked, “It was abandoned by the people who lived there, back when I was about your age, Thomas. The farmer died. His widow and children had to move to the city to live with his sister. Or maybe it was the widow’s sister.”

I looked at the old house as we drove past it. Something about it looked familiar. Of course, we had driven past it many times before, and my sister always pointed it out to me. It did not then look familiar because of that. Something else. Right then, I wasn’t sure what. It was built into the side of a hill with a slope of about forty-five degrees. Small windows could be seen at the ground level, which indicated the presence of a basement level. There were two levels above ground, plus a large attic area—which could be considered to be a third level. An attic room had a door that opened out onto a small sundeck. There did not appear to be any life on the property at all. I mean, even the grass and all of the trees were dead.

“How did the farmer die?” I asked my mother. I’d not asked that before.

“I remember the story in the newspaper.” she replied.

“A Sunday, in May, like this Sunday.” my father recalled.

“The farmer’s family was at church when it happened.” my mother recalled.

“Not our church.” my father said to my mother.

“No, Michael.” she replied, “One in the city. But I don’t recall which one. Do you?”

“No, Jean.” my father answered.

“The farmer didn’t go to church?” Lucy asked.

“He did.” my mother answered, “But then there was a church picnic during the afternoon. His wife and children remained at the church, while the farmer returned to their house to get a few more items for the picnic.”

“What was their family name?” I wanted to know.

“Taylor.” my father answered, “The farmer’s parents came to the United States from Germany.”

“When he returned to the house, from the church, to get more items for the picnic, he encountered intruders. A number of strange men. They had broken into his house. They attacked him when he entered his house. He died from his injuries.” my mother reported, “The sheriff’s investigation concluded it to be a burglary. The strange men had not gone there to murder the farmer. It was his bad luck he came home when they were there. His wife reported that they had taken all of her jewelry, including a very unique collection of emeralds.”

“The bad men got away?” Lucy asked.

“The intruders were never identified or caught.” our father answered.

But that was not the end of the story.

“Within a week,” my mother continued, “everything within about one hundred yards—the length of a football field—of the farmhouse died. The trees, plants, grass. Even the family pets, and a few farm animals. It was as if every living thing had been poisoned by something brought onto the property by the intruders. That is one of the reasons why the surviving family moved out. They had become ill, but after leaving the property they soon recovered.”

“Did anyone ever see the farmer’s ghost there, in the old haunted house?” Lucy wanted to know, “Are any of those stories really true?”

“It was during an electrical storm.” my father recalled.

“Some people in the area, just passing by, claimed to see strange lights on the property.” my mother reported.

“I believe it was nothing more than ball lightning.” my father said, “Just light playing tricks on the eyes during a storm. Wild imaginations. Nothing more. No ghost.”

“You should paint a picture of the haunted house, Lucy.” I suggested, “With a ghost peeking out a window.”

“I don’t like to paint.” Lucy replied, “What made you say that?”

“I don’t know.” I answered.

“It might be fun to see inside that old place.” Lucy said.

“You both better stay away from there.” our father warned us. “It’s not safe there.” I don’t know why he bothered to give that warning. It was too far from our house to walk to or to ride a bicycle to.

“No picnic at the haunted house this afternoon?” Lucy joked.

“No.” I replied.

I thought about our own house. We lived in a single level house at that time in my life. However, my father had added a basement level—just a single room—with a fourth bedroom on the ground level above it. I remembered looking at a set of the builder’s drawings, as the construction was being finished in May of 1962—a year before that Sunday. The basement would be our storm shelter. The new bedroom would be my new bedroom, and my former bedroom would become a guest bedroom. The architect, or one of the builders working on it there, gave me a pencil and a sheet of paper. I remember I used it to draw a picture of a tornado threatening the house, with our family inside the shelter.

“What happens to a ghost in a haunted house, if caught in a tornado?” I asked, quite seriously.

“Is that a joke?” Lucy replied.

“No.” I told her.

“Then why don’t we let you out, and you can go back to the haunted house to ask one?” Lucy suggested.

“Enough of that.” our father warned us. “We are almost at the church.”

“Yes.” my mother added, “It’s time to think about more pleasant subjects.”

I was going to ask if ghosts go to church, but then realized it would be best to remain silent, to avoid becoming one. In the rear-view mirror, I noticed my father giving me the look. So I sat in silence, and looked out through a car window at the tall and narrow trees we passed along the road. Something special about those trees . . . almost triggering a memory of . . . another place, long ago.

My father turned off of the country road, and then into the parking lot of the church. A man, standing just past the entry driveway, holding a big shotgun, stopped us.

“Good morning, Perry.” my father said to the man.

“Michael. Jean.” the man greeted my parents. Then he leaned down a bit further and looked through to the back seat of the car. “Howdy, Thomas. Lucy.”

“Perry.” my mother greeted in return for all of us. Her greeting didn’t sound totally friendly – more like tolerating someone she really didn’t care much for.

“My turn to guard the lot.” Perry explained. “If any of those hoodlums from the city come here again, and attempt to vandalize our cars and church property, I’ll be ready!” Perry said as he patted his shotgun, and smiled.

“We’ll pray there is no trouble.” my mother remarked. “Especially on this Mother’s Day. Can’t you keep that gun out of sight?”

My mother did not like guns. My father had a collection of guns, locked away where my mother would not be bothered by seeing them but not hidden from her. She did learn how to shoot, taught by her father who also taught her three sisters when they were teens. He was an astronomer from France, who became an English professor at the University of Chicago for a number of years, then moving to Oklahoma and finally to Kansas. She didn’t like to shoot, but one of her sisters who did like guns also started a ranch in Illinois. I visited there once. My only time on a horse, nearly turned me into an astronaut when the horse happened upon a snake in the grass. My aunt shot the snake.

“If they’re watching, I want them to see we’re armed and very serious about defending our property.” Perry answered, “This one belongs to my mother. She just turned 90 today, and she wanted to stand guard out here with it!”

“Perhaps I should have brought one of my guns.” my father said to Perry.

“I have an extra gun in my truck, if needed.” he replied. Then he pointed and said, “Park over there.”

My father nodded, and drove over to the parking place.

Usually, out on the parking lot, before and after church services, I would overhear the adult members talking about a variety of subjects. They would bring each other up-to-date on the more interesting events in their lives during the past week. Most of the members of our church worked in the oil business, in offices, or out on wells, or a combination of both like my father. Again I wondered if that is why our church was named the Well of the Souls Church. Some of the oilmen also had their offices in Kansas City, most of them being on the Kansas side. Others were located in Topeka, and Wichita. A few had offices in Oklahoma City, and Tulsa.

Roughnecks, in expensive, three-piece suits, with gold tie clips, gold cuff links, and very polished shoes, on Sundays at church services, were still roughnecks. It was their foul language, in those days, which helped me to separate those members in the oil business from those in various other professions. After all, their language was crude.

I recall a few conversations that stood out…

“A hell-of-a-deal…” I heard one old, balding, short, fat man remark to a younger, tall, skinny man. “Paul Durand paid me a hell-of-a pile of cash for nothing! Just scrap iron and dry holes! It doesn’t fracking figure! He’s got a small steal mill.”

“Damn wells keep going dry.” the skinny man replied, “Durand is saving many of us from going completely broke, buying up all of our useless metal goods. I can understand that part of it. He obviously melts it all down and sells it. But . . . like you, I can’t imagine what the hell he wants with our dry holes. Maybe we’re the idiots.”

“I swear there is a pattern to his purchases of dry holes! Damn! I wish I could figure it out! It is as if he is looking for something. What in hell could he be looking for? Buried treasure?” the fat man asked.

“Damned if I know.” the skinny man replied. “But it must be very important to him, or others he’s doing business with. I wonder who. I did hear part of a conversation, him talking to some government men and an archaeologist about it. Made no sense to me. Something about proof of aliens visiting Earth and an ancient civilization about forty thousand years ago. Someone was drilling a well somewhere, hit a time capsule buried there long ago. One of them remarked that’s how the church of the Mormons got started. Anyway, at least Durand is not being a son-of-a-bitch about it. I got some usable dollars from him for all of my scrap metal. He could have got it all for much less.”

“Maybe that bastard should be paying better than he is now, and is just making us think we’re getting a good deal.” the fat man wondered.

I didn’t like hearing that kind of language. Those foul words. My father never talked that way. Not exactly that way, anyway. Following my father’s example, I never talked that way . . . unless I happened to drop something heavy on one of my toes or hit a thumb with a hammer by mistake . . . but then, no one would usually hear what I would say when I’d have one of those kinds of accidents. No one I could see, anyway.

At that time, oil businesses in Kansas were in fast decline, and it was getting rough for small operators. However, some of our wells, at least seven belonging to the Harrow-Wells Oil Company, were still pumping out a high volume of oil. Members of the Kansas Independent Oil and Gas Association were looking to my father for guidance, as if he had some kind of special technique for making our wells produce more oil.

“Eventually, everything turns to shit.” I overheard a man with red hair tell my father before church one Sunday morning.

“Livingston.” my father greeted him in reply.

“What are we going to do about the salt water problem?” the clownish looking man asked my father.

“We must develop new techniques.” my father replied.

“Sure, Michael.” The red-haired man said, “New methods are costly, and unproven. They could cause more pollution.”

“Fresh water pollution is a major concern.” my father told the man, “But there are other concerns to deal with, too. The material shortages. Allocations. There’s also the fracking issue, danger of causing small earthquakes in the area. And you know we’re getting into a political war, mainly with the Democrats.”

“Yes.” The man replied, “Those bastards will tax us to death.”

I would also overhear other adults in conversations along much more personal lines. My vocabulary was about average for my age then . . . but I knew enough to understand that what we children were being taught to be sins, a few adults were doing without much restraint, daily or nightly, Mondays through Saturdays. They only appeared to be sin-free on Sundays, by the way most of them dressed. Their words revealed their true natures. I often heard the excuse, “We are only human.” So it would seem, some were more human than others. Those who claimed to hold particular beliefs and a certain way of living, then did just exactly the opposite in the way they actually lived. More contradictions and hypocrisy in the reality of that time and place. However, our family practiced what was preached in that church . . . as much as we agreed with, anyway.

My mother and father went to the main building, an A-frame design, where the “adult” version of the truth would be presented. My sister and I went to a separate building for Sunday school, where the “young people” version of the truth would be taught to us. I believed there should only be one version of the complete truth preached to the people of all ages, in the same place and at the same time. I felt older than my known years. I hated age discrimination. However, I did realize the exception should be babies and children too young to be able to sit quietly while the pastor is preaching and teaching. Somehow I really did feel older than age 7 that Sunday . . . not in body, but in spirit . . . and as if I were reaching a higher level of consciousness, which could have been caused by the asthma medicine, or something else.

Before going to the separate Sunday school classrooms for different ages, all of the “young people” would together go to the large basement room in that building. There we would sing a number of religious songs together. At that time in this life I did not like singing. I liked listening to other people sing, but I did not like to sing. Especially religious songs. I did not like the music, and I did not totally agree with all of the words. However, as I thought about Christ Jesus that Sunday morning, and was looking at the titles of all the songs in the songbook, I realized there is one kind of religious music that I did like, and even enjoyed singing. It was most of the Christmas music and songs, and I truly desired to experience the good feelings that music gave me. I especially liked the one with the words, “Do you hear what I hear?” Later on, that Sunday morning, my soul would hear and see more than any of the other members of that church.

I recall there was another reason for going down into the basement of that building. On our way to be seated, we would pass by a scale model of our church, as it would eventually become. They had not yet constructed a third building, for linking the main A-frame building to the Sunday school classrooms building. Construction was scheduled for the following year. I don’t recall what they planned to use the third building for. On the roof of the scale model, on top of the new third building, there was a slot for us to put our money in. I knew the money was for the construction of the new building. However, one of the Sunday school teachers liked giving us a childish explanation for the purpose of the money being put in there, as if we were unable to comprehend the adult truth. She referred to money in the model church as being our “hereafter allowance.” To me she once said, “The money goes to heaven to pay for all of the palaces of gold we will live in after we pass on, if good little boys and girls put all of their spare coins in this little church every Sunday.” I recall she liked to talk about “streets of gold” in heaven, too. Maybe she actually believed it.

“You mean, the two quarters I just put in there now are in heaven?” I asked that Sunday school teacher.

“Yes.” Miss Croats answered.

“Open it. Show me they are not still there.” I challenged.

“If I do, then that means you have no faith. And little boys with no faith will find nothing in their account, if and when they get to heaven.” she warned me.

I squinted my eyes at her, and walked on over to where I was to be seated. Even at that age, I began to wonder if everything is about money. I concluded that money belongs to the physical world, and has nothing to do with the spiritual world. God does not need money and has no need for our money, I thought to myself.

After a grueling, full half hour of singing, we all went up to our separate classrooms. We had to march in a single file, “Like good Christian soldiers,” one teacher told us.

Christian soldiers. They did not know Lucifer lost the great war against the Realm of Heaven. Even if they did, they would have suppressed the truth. They still needed an enemy. There still had to be a source of willful evil and sin. The followers of the Christian faith had to blame someone for their ongoing problems. So Lucifer became the so-called devil, and Satan became the so-called devil, and the Prince of Darkness and Deception became the so-called devil . . . the three became one. Yes, the evil trinity became the single devil in the darkness of ignorance and the flames of hell on Earth. Onward Christian soldiers…

+

The Sunday school classroom of the Well of the Souls Church, which I was assigned to, was only about 18 feet long, about 12 feet wide, with a 9-foot ceiling. There was one door from the hallway into the classroom. As I stepped inside, one 12-foot wall was immediately right of the door that was at an end of an 18-foot wall. There was the one door-size window in the middle of the 18-foot wall opposite the door wall. Chalkboards hung on both of the 12-foot walls at each end of the room. Low bookshelves were built into the walls under the chalkboards. The outer wall was red brick. Inner walls were stained wood. The ceiling had one long florescent light fixture centered with the rectangular room. Furniture in the room was just one long table, with one chair at each end, and seven chairs on each long side of the table.

One teacher of course. Fifteen students, all present that Sunday.

Mrs. Smythe sat at the end of the table near the door to her left. “Be seated.” she ordered. “Be silent.”

I sat in the middle chair on the door side of the table, facing the window. Three students to my left, and three to my right. Seven across from me. The teacher at the table end to my right. One more student, at the table end to my left, who had scored the highest on the previous Sunday’s test, got to sit in that special chair. Most of the students in that room were seven years old, plus or minus a few months. Eight girls. Six boys.

The Holy Bible was not the only book in that classroom. We used bible storybooks with pictures, bible workbooks, and a number of other books to be used with the bible’s New Testament. There were different versions of the bible in that classroom, and the King James Version was only one of them. The other versions were worded differently, and in a way that was apparently intended to make the Holy Bible easier to read and understand. With most adults being treated like ignorant children, you can guess how they treated actual children. At that time, I didn’t have a favorite bible or preferred version. Looking back, I’d say the King James Version of the Life Application Study Bible, published in 1989, which I purchased at a store in Shreveport when I was there on a trip in 1991, has proved to be the most useful to me.

Whichever book we were reading that Sunday morning, it was the usual routine for a particular paragraph to be singled out and read. Then the teacher would explain its meaning. After that, as she would say, “Now, turn to…”—and while all of the other students were turning pages, I would read on a bit further. I would find that her explanation might very well apply to that paragraph, taken out of context, but not to the other relating information in that chapter or section of the book. I discovered that some of her explanations conflicted with explanations in the writing at the end of each chapter or section or at the bottom of a page. Then, in other chapters or sections, and in other books, she would contradict herself, and other books would appear to contradict each other—as perhaps the authors were not in agreement with each other. So many different “versions” of the Holy Bible.

I felt that in human form we might not ever be able to fully understand all of the complexities of the Realm of Heaven in the spiritual universe. I mean what Christians refer to as the Kingdom of Heaven, being the male-dominated religion that it mostly still is. However, it should not be difficult to fully understand and live the simple teachings of Christ Jesus. Yes, Christ Jesus. Not Jesus Christ. After all, we don’t refer to King James as James King. Christ is a title like king, not a last name, not a family name.

I just happened to find a contradiction in what we were being taught on that Sunday. At the moment, I don’t recall exactly what it was, because there were so many I discovered that year. Age seven was an awakening year. I went so far as to boldly point a couple out to our teacher and the other students on previous occasions. This usually made nearly half of the students angry. On one occasion, my challenges made one of the other students cry. The rest of them, surprisingly, agreed with me, and then joined me in asking more challenging questions. At first, the teacher would allow the angry students to respond with their own answers, as if it were some kind of a debate. Their side fell back on what I called “circular logic”—coming from nowhere and going nowhere. Finally, the teacher would simply give the usual run-around answer “adults” liked to give “children” when they themselves did not know the answer.

I looked up to my left at the clock on the wall above the chalkboard. Class was about half over . . . thank God!

I looked across the room and out the window. I could see the church gardener, who was then watering some flowers near the window. That Mother’s Day was a warm day, but there were cool breezes and gusts of wind. I noticed the gardener wearing a green windbreaker jacket. He was hanging on to a weather-beaten straw hat. Seeing his face, I guessed him to be about 70 years old.

We were taking turns reading paragraphs from a bible storybook. It had pictures in it. Some of the color picture drawings reminded me of the Prince Valiant series in the Sunday newspaper color comics section, which my father and sister liked to read together.

I was not entertained by any of the religious stories at that time in this life. I was entertained by the kind of stories presented in The Twilight Zone anthology series on TV created by Rod Serling. I remember the introductions…

You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension, a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You’re moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You’ve just crossed over into the Twilight Zone.” ~ Rod Serling.

On that Sunday morning, I didn’t know that what would happen to me would have been ideal for a story in that unusual TV show. Words from the season one introduction…

There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.” ~ Rod Serling.

“Between science and superstition,” the truth was about to be unveiled.

Clockwise, on around the table, each of us would take a turn reading, even the teacher. About every third student would be stopped by Mrs. Smythe, who would then ask us if we understood what was just read. Then, she would go ahead and explain it, even if we claimed to understand it all. It was as if none of us could ever hope to understand it without her help.

I had just finished reading a paragraph, and realized I had just uncovered another contradiction. While the next student took a turn to read, I turned back to a different paragraph read earlier, which appeared to state the opposite of the paragraph I read out load when I took a turn. Or maybe it was the fine print explanation included in that version. I don’t recall now exactly what it was about. I continued to study it while other students took their turns reading paragraphs.

Time passed, and it was back to Mrs. Smythe to take a turn to read a paragraph. She was then in the middle of one long paragraph when she suddenly stopped reading.

Silence. Sudden silence. Absolute silence.

I briefly wondered if I had lost track of who was reading and whose turn it was next. I started to ask, “Oh, sorry, is it my turn to read again?” But then I was sure the teacher had stopped in the middle of the paragraph she was reading. So it wasn’t the kind of silence one gets after one has not been paying attention, and it is one’s turn to read again.

It wasn’t the kind of silence one experiences very early on a Sunday morning when most people are still sleeping, and no cars can be seen or heard driving out on the streets. It wasn’t the kind of silence one rarely experiences late at night, when the neighbors are quiet for a nice change, the family in the house is quiet, a dog isn’t barking somewhere, cats aren’t trying to kill each other to death and beyond, no planes flying overhead, the refrigerator can’t be heard running in a mad frenzy, the water pipes aren’t groaning, the fan is not on to circulate the air in the house, the wind is so calm for a change you wonder if the world is still outside the house, and everything is totally still. No, not that kind of silence.

It was more like the kind of silence one experiences in a cave that is totally dark. Yes, a cave. So dark you can feel the walls of the cave with every cell of your body and even with your ears. You can hear the silence between you and the cave walls, a kind of silence echoing silence.

I looked over at the teacher. Her eyes . . . looked strange . . . glazed over . . . as if she was dead with her eyes open.

I could move my eyes . . . turn my head to look around. However, I didn’t feel that I could get up from the chair, as if some kind of force, other than gravity, was holding my body there.

No one in the classroom was moving. The eyes of the other students had the same look as those of Mrs. Smythe.

I could see out through the window. The old man gardener was frozen in his tracks. The water coming out of the garden hose appeared to be caught in a strobe light effect, with each drop suspended in the air on the water arc stream. Beyond the gardener, I could see a bird in flight near the building, and it was just a blur. Other birds appeared to be suspended in the air. Further, I was able to see a few cars out on the main road . . . some blurred more than others. It was as if time had stopped out there, as well as inside the classroom.

I looked up at the clock and noticed the second hand had stopped moving. I felt like I had become suspended in time, or existing between two moments of time. Even so, apparently, a different kind of time was passing for me, while normal time had stopped for everyone else. At that age, I did not yet know about the possibility of compressed time . . . that I was experiencing a compressed time event being planted in my memory, downloaded into my brain . . . that the flow of time had not actually stopped for anyone. My perception of time was being manipulated.

Suddenly, the feeling of thunder interrupted my thoughts. No, not the sound of thunder. I didn’t hear it. I felt it. No sound. Even so, it was like the horrible kind of thunder that would blast me out of bed late at night during a disturbing storm. However, those included blindingly bright flashes of lightning. There was no lightning with the thunder I felt then. The feeling of thunder felt like it was coming from a particular direction.

I looked up to the southwest corner of the room, to the right of the window, where the window wall, the wall to my right, and the ceiling created the upper southwest corner of the room. There, three lines of three dimensions reached a common geometric point.

Suddenly, it was as if gravity tilted toward the upper southwest corner of the room, but nothing fell into that corner. Nothing moved. I felt the sensation of falling, but remained in my chair.

An image flashed through my mind . . . something like an aircraft . . . something familiar . . . flying at a very high altitude. The image viewpoint shifted to a view inside the aircraft or whatever it was . . . then focused on a large hole suddenly appearing in its side. I felt and heard the blast of depressurization . . . all the air rushing out of the craft. Even so, the air was not rushing out of the classroom.

The image vanished. Silence returned.

Abruptly, the three corners—being the upper left corner of the west wall, the upper right corner of the south wall, and the southwest corner of the ceiling—began to open up . . . and curve—folding outward . . . into a vast darkness that was absolutely black. It was as if a giant invisible monster was pealing open the walls and ceiling in that upper corner. However, I could not see this world beyond the opening. Instead, it appeared to be a complete void. Each corner formed a triangle of 45-90-45 degrees as the outward folding continued. Those three triangles together created a larger triangle of equal angles, and therefore equal sides . . . about three feet on each side as the outward folding stopped.

Three forming one. Equal angles, equal sides.

I felt it was important. It seemed like a problem in math . . . and at that time, math wasn’t my best subject. I was trying to understand the meaning of it with physical values, while the meaning was actually in spiritual values.

Three forming one. Equal angles, equal sides. Spiritual values?

“The Father? The Son? The Holy Spirit?” I managed to ask in a whisper, not expecting an answer.

Suddenly, a single point of light appeared in the center of the black triangle. Like a distant star . . . but then it was moving . . . slowing becoming larger . . . coming closer. Abruptly, the point of light separated into three points of light, each moving rapidly outwards on separate lines perpendicular to the center of the sides of the triangle.

One forming three.

At the moment those points of light reached and touched the sides of the triangle, they vanished . . . and as those three vanished, a deep field of stars materialized inside the great triangle, filling the black void . . . with spirals of light, multi-colored clouds of gas mixed with multicolored points of light. Each point of light appeared to be flickering to a musical rhythm, but without me hearing the sound of the music.

Thus, I watched and waited in more silence for what would happen next…

+

Gradually, I began to sense an intelligent presence within that Sunday school classroom of the Well of the Souls Church. It slowly extended itself out of the communications triangle, and into the room, toward me.

I felt something touch my mind. Then, like turning on a light in a place that was previously as dark as a deep cave, I felt it make the connection to my soul . . . causing me to instantly remember something about my soul . . . my Caeruli soul, a soul in the spectrum of blue light.

“Fear not.” it said. I felt its voice, as it spoke to my soul. I did not hear it with my ears, but somehow I sensed it to be a male voice . . . and something familiar about it.

“I know you.” I replied in a whisper. But before my words left my mouth, I sensed he already knew my thoughts. I could not see him, but somehow he felt familiar to me.

“We have met before, and we will meet again.” he replied.

“Who are you?” I wanted to know. “Are you Christ Jesus?”

“No. I am not a Creator Son.” he answered, and then informed me, “I am a Trinity Angel, also known as a triangel. Not a triangle. A triangel. As result of ascending transformations, I’ve been given elements of the Great Maternal Spirit, Great Paternal Spirit, and the Holy Life Spirit. Our Holy Trinity. I have for some time been assigned to this world as a Trinity Angel Ambassador. I am the Ambassador to Earth from the spiritual Realm of Heaven.”

“I knew you before that. Who were you?” I pressed the question.

“Long ago, far away, I was nothing more than what you were then and what you are now here after . . . a soul with a superconscious mind, within a physical body containing an unconscious mind and a brain containing a conscious mind with a subconscious.”

“I don’t clearly remember…” I whispered.

“In good time, you will. Those memories are deep within your soul. They will eventually surface.” the ambassador assured me. I noticed he had not really answered my question about his identity.

“When?” I inquired, “When will I remember?”

“Important key turning points during your present physical life on this world.” was the answer he provided.

“Why are you contacting me now?” I asked.

“You are now at a key turning point.” he answered.

“What…” I began to ask.

“You have been asking important questions lately, which I have become aware of through the prayer circuits, and spiritual communications from your indwelling spirit.” the ambassador told me, “Your level of awareness has increased to include knowledge of what you perceive to be contradictions and hypocrisy.”

“Yes.” I confirmed.

“And you want to know the truth about many things.” he said.

“Yes.” I confirmed.

“The Holy Spirit of Truth will always light the way for those who are truly willing and desire to know the truth.” he told me.

“What Mrs. Smyth is teaching…” I began.

“Not everything she teaches is the truth.” the ambassador confirmed. “Even so, what she teaches she believes to be the truth.”

“I know.” I replied.

“There is vast gulf between believing and knowing.” he told me. “She is not deliberately lying. She is not deliberately engaging in willful evil.”

“What? A contradiction?” I asked.

“Not a contradiction.” he answered. “Remember . . . and understand.”

An image formed within my mind. I found myself looking down into a classroom . . . my classroom at the public elementary school . . . during my first week in first grade. From my viewpoint above, I could clearly see myself as I was then, sitting at a school desk down there. I could hear what was being said, there in that classroom.

As I wondered how this was possible, the ambassador said, “Your indwelling spirit recorded these events, and is now playing them back for you to see. These events could be played from the memory tracks of your mind, but if we were to use that method then you would be seeing these events through your eyes as you were then instead of a viewpoint from above.”

“I understand.” I said. I really did understand it.

“Now, remember the truth game…” he told me.

The students there put their desks into a big circle. The teacher’s desk was part of that circle. Miss Kanyon, who was my first grade teacher, was telling a story. It was a very short story of only about two hundred words. She whispered it into the right ear of the first student to her left. That student whispered it to the student on her left. In turn, the next student did the same, passing the story on to his left. And so it went, around the circle, clockwise, student to student.

“The circle of truth.” the ambassador said to me.

“I remember.” I replied.

“Now, observe carefully.” the ambassador advised me.

The story was repeated until it reached me. I was the last student in the circle, having been seated to the right of the teacher. Miss Kanyon asked me to stand up and tell the story out loud. As I did so, she rolled up a map, which had been pulled down to cover the story written on the chalkboard, directly behind me, where I could not see it. It was the original story. The story I was telling was somewhat different in key details. There was some common ground. As I was finishing the story, many of the students nearer to the beginning of the circle laughed at me. So I knew that something had gone very wrong. The students nearer the end of the circle began to question each other, and to accuse each other of lying or changing the story. It was a fact that the story had been changed, possibly several times . . . deliberately, or from simply hearing it wrong and then repeating it wrong. Even so, no one would confess to making the changes. Each student, who had passed it on to the next student, claimed to believe it was being retold correctly.

“I understand.” I told the ambassador.

“Imagine…” the ambassador said, in a voice I could still only feel—or hear with my soul, rather than with my physical human ears. “Each student positioned on the original circle, becomes the first student in a separate circle…” A circle of light appeared in the communications triangle of the ambassador in the upper southwest corner of the Sunday school classroom. There had been twenty-three students and one teacher in the circle of truth game at the elementary school. Twenty-four points of light appeared on the circle in the triangle. Outside of that circle, twenty-four circles appeared, each being connected to one of the twenty-four points of light on the original circle.

“I see.” I said.

“Stories are passed on from one generation to another . . . changed slightly with each retelling . . . distorted with the passing of time . . . distorted by poor memory, and poor storytellers . . . changes in languages, poor speaking, poor hearing . . . then poor reading and writing. There are those who would deliberately make changes for whatever reasons. Different customs. Different politics. Different religions. It all becomes a jigsaw puzzle of fact and fiction.”

“Our religion…” I began to inquire. “We’ve been taught that the Holy Bible has remained unchanged since it was first written.” I said.

“The truth is not measured by the passing of time.” he replied. “Between the years 1545 and 1563 CE, 400 years ago, at a city named Trent, in Italy, a council of men decided what the Holy Bible would contain, what would be acceptable, and what would not be acceptable. The Gospel of Thomas, and the Acts of Andrew, were banned from the Holy Bible. The Council of Trent was of the Roman Catholic Church’s most important ecumenical councils. Prompted by the Protestant Reformation, it has been described as the embodiment of the Counter-Reformation. Men persisted more with their own beliefs than with what was taught by Christ Jesus. From the beginning, the original Christian church has been fragmenting because of ongoing disagreements for what is or is not acceptable to them. There are many different kinds of Christian churches now. If the fragmentation continues, then eventually it will break down to the individual, one church for every person. That’s just the Christian religion. There are many other religions on planet Earth. Further, there are many inhabited planets.”

“Censorship. Covering up some of the truth.” I replied.

“Yes. In your mind, imagine an actual jigsaw picture puzzle of a picture. Any picture you like will do just fine. Imagine all of the pieces being scattered around the different rooms of the house you live in. Other children come to your house to play, to help put the picture puzzle back together.” the ambassador described it. “There is a problem. All of the pieces of the puzzle are face down, wherever they are found, with the blank side up.”

“What caused the pieces to become face down?” I asked.

“That is another story, which partly relates to how and why the original picture was broken into pieces and scattered. There was the Great War in Heaven, known as the Lucifer Revolt. It encompassed hundreds of inhabited worlds in the spiritual universe, and had some impact on the inhabited planets of the physical universe. You’ll learn about that from the memory tracks within your soul, from your indwelling spirit, and from me during a future meeting.” he told me.

“Okay.” I replied, “So, with the blank sides up, how could anyone put the picture puzzle back together, if they can’t turn the pieces over to see the other side?”

“It would become a very difficult and frustrating experience.” the ambassador answered, and then continued. “Next, imagine the children decide to paint their own pictures on the blank sides. Each child paints a different picture, although a few form groups. Some wanting to paint sky and clouds. Some wanting to paint land and trees. Some wanting to paint the ocean with waves. Imagine, attempting to assemble all of those different pictures, without ever being able to look at the other side of the pieces for the original true and complete picture. If you understand how difficult that would be, then just imagine the further complications caused by some of the children using scissors to change the shapes of the pieces, so that their pictures can be forced to fit together they way they want them to fit together. Even worse, they use the scissors to cut up and destroy pieces they don’t want, or believe they don’t need.”

“The original would be damaged, and some pieces lost.” I said.

“Yes.” the ambassador replied, “In each religion of every room in the mansion of Earth, there are still some original true pieces that can be reassembled. If one religion has more true pieces than another, then that does not necessarily make it any better than the others.”

“Mansions. You mean other houses.” I realized. “Not just this one house with many rooms.”

“Other houses.” the ambassador replied, and paused a moment as if to consider that. Then he said, “My old friend, there are other cities!”

“The kingdom of our Lord, Christ Jesus, is truly vast.” I remarked.

“The famous burning of the Library of Alexandria, including the incalculable loss of ancient works, has become a symbol of the irretrievable loss of public knowledge.” the ambassador reported. “Year 642, Alexandria was captured by the Muslim army of ‘Amr ibn al-‘As. Several later Arabic sources describe the library’s destruction by the order of Caliph Omar. Bar-Hebraeus, writing in the 13th century, quotes Omar as saying to Yaḥyā al-Naḥwī: ‘If those books are in agreement with the Quran, we have no need of them; and if these are opposed to the Quran, destroy them.’”

“There was a war between Christians and Muslims. I barely remember. Like a faded dream. No. A nightmare. I was killed in battle. Now I’m here. How is that possible?” I asked. The ambassador didn’t answer. I continued, “I fought on the side of the Christians. The cross…”

“So much of the Christian faith was founded upon the one death upon the cross, of the one life in the flesh lived by one Creator Son. It should have been founded more upon his simple teachings. The truth is about life, not death, not antilife. That was the Gospel—the Good News—of Christ Jesus.” he told me, “Earth, the so-called World of the Cross, is known of in the far corners of the physical universe and everywhere in the spiritual universe. Christ Jesus did not come to this world to live a short life in the flesh, then to die on a cross for the sins of humankind as a form of punishment and self-sacrifice. He came to this planet to liberate the souls of this world from the oppression of the Lucifer Revolt. It caused a quarantine to be placed upon this world, trapping souls upon this world and forcing them into reincarnations. Souls could not ascend into the spiritual heaven during the revolt and quarantine. It protected them from getting caught in the war within the spiritual universe, where souls could be destroyed by the fighting, a death from which there is no return. This happened to all inhabited planets in the physical universe. Creator Sons and Creator Daughters had to be sent to all of those worlds to terminate the revolt and free the souls. Then the quarantine was lifted. Even so, just as physical wars cause physical damage, which must be repaired after the end of the war, spiritual wars cause spiritual damage, which must be repaired after the end of the war. The Gospel—the Good News—is that we won the Great War in Heaven, different than wars on Earth, and then we all became free. However, we have yet to repair the spiritual damaged caused by the great revolt. Sin and willful evil are kinds of damage yet to be repaired. Much of the Lucifer Revolt was against the existence of the Great Maternal Spirit and Creator Daughters, who created the ascension plan for souls to ascend into the spiritual heaven after living one life in the physical universe. Lucifer went so far as to deny their existence. It was Lucifer who planted the claim of only one Creator Son, to make it appear to be easier to defeat the spiritual Realm of Heaven, so that he could more easily convince others to join his revolt.”

The ambassador allowed a pause as I absorbed and thought about that information…

+

My communication with the Ambassador to Earth from the Realm of Heaven continued as a compressed time event downloaded into my mind, there in that Sunday school classroom of the Well of the Souls Church.

“So many believe…” I said.

“The truth is not a democracy. Because the majority believe one thing does not make it true.” the ambassador told me, “However, it is a democracy that will help to to reassemble and rebuild the truth.”

“We must rebuild the truth…” I said.

“Yes, Thomas. But first, the carriers of truth must be reunited, and I have come to awaken the carriers of truth.” he informed me.

“Who are the carriers of truth?” I wanted to know.

“There are souls on this world, who did not come here directly from their creation in heaven. They came here from distant planets. Most of them came from the Interstar Trading Worlds of the Mercatorian Empire, an empire of merchants engaging in peaceful interstellar trade. Physically, they became trapped on Earth, the planet they named Mirandus, and then they died here. They have Caeruli souls, meaning souls in the spectrum of blue light. Their souls became trapped here because of the Lucifer Revolt and the resulting spiritual quarantine.” the ambassador reported, “Those who did come to this world directly from their creation in heaven have souls in the spectrum of green light, and are known as Viridi souls. This has nothing to do with the physical races of different colors of Mirandians, Earth humans, and I’ll explain more about that another time. The Viridi souls became trapped on this world, too. Even so, the Caeruli souls have experience and knowledge the Viridi souls do not have. Although the Revolt ended almost two thousand years ago, when the quarantine was lifted, most Caeruli souls have been kept on this world, while most Viridi souls have been allowed to ascend. I must now awaken all of the Caeruli souls, so they can share their knowledge of the truth. They are here to usher in a new age, an age of interstellar travel and trade. When they came to this world in physical form, aboard their great starship, it was for a different purpose. There was a mutiny. Their starship was destroyed. Even so, a few of them survived for about a year on the surface of this planet at a place known as the Garden at the Base of the Stars. During that time, they buried many time capsules at different locations around the world. The capsules contain information about their home worlds, their people, history, and detailed plans for how to construct a new starship.”

“Am I a carrier of truth?” I asked, “I have a Caeruli soul… Are you here to awaken me?”

“Yes.” the ambassador answered, “And to answer a few of your questions. But keep in mind, my time here for this visit is limited.”

“Mrs. Smythe is not one of the carriers of truth.” I said, “She is a carrier of false information, but does not know it . . . and so, that does not make her a bad person.”

“Repeating and teaching subjects that are not totally accurate, while believing them to be completely true, does not make a person evil or guilty of willful evil.” he told me. “Usually.”

“That is good.” I remarked.

“We have a just and merciful God.” the ambassador said. “Sin is a less serious crime, like a misdemeanor, which results in limited punishment, and calls for forgiveness. What is known as willful evil is a much more serious crime, like a capital crime, which results in the death penalty, the instant obliteration of the guilty soul or spirit, which is the ultimate permanent death from which there is no return.”

“I’m happy to know there is mercy.” I replied, “I’ve been wrong, sometimes.”

“Only willful evil will result in God’s willful obliteration of a condemned soul or spirit in the Lake of Fire.” he told me. “There is no such place as hell where condemned souls burn eternally. The end of a soul or spirit in the Lake of Fire is instant and permanent.”

“I remember flames . . . somewhere . . . but I survived.” I said.

“You are a will creature of time and space. You have a Caeruli soul, and therein a superconscious mind—that which you truly are, which is accompanied by an indwelling spirit for some guidance and for recording all of the events of your existence.” he informed me. “You have the freedom to make your own choices. Make the right choices and complete the race. For all who complete the race are winners of the race.”

“We are all different.” I remarked.

“You have a question?” the ambassador replied.

“Not everyone is created equal.” I said.

“All souls are created equally.” he began his explanation. “That means, in the same way, and by the same method. From the moment a soul is born—spiritually born in heaven with a superconscious mind, and then from the selection of incarnation, each soul and superconscious mind therein becomes unique by way of different life experiences. Each soul becomes personalized by the kind of choices made. Physical human bodies, are obviously not equal. In that way, everyone is somewhat different. Like different cars. Your physical body is like a car, and your spiritual soul is the driver.”

“We were not created in the image or likeness of God?” I asked.

“No, Thomas.” he answered, “People were not created to physically look like our spiritual God. There are many different kinds of intelligent creatures, who have souls, superconscious minds, indwelling spirits, and inhabit other worlds of God’s vast creation. If any part of Eearth human existence is in the likeness of God, then it would be the indwelling spirit, which is, from one of several perspectives, an extension of God. The male-dominated Christian religion only teaches about the male side of God and the one Son of God. The truth is God is a Trinity Spirit Being, three together as one, and acting independently. The Great Maternal Spirit of God is for all female life. The Great Paternal Spirit of God is for all male life. The Holy Life Spirit of God is for all genderless life. At one time, during the history of the Realm of Heaven, there was one Creator Son. Since then, many Creator Daughters in addition to many Creator Sons have been created by God. You cannot look upon God in your present physical form and live, because of the kind of energy radiating from God.”

“Can I see you?” I asked.

“Yes. In good time, you will.” the ambassador answered, “Presently, this method of communication would make it difficult.”

“You said you are an angel…” I began.

“A Trinity Angel.” he said.

“Do you have wings?” I asked, “And a halo?”

The ambassador laughed. “No, Thomas. I understand why you would ask that question. I laugh because of the irony. On the distant planet, where I long ago lived a life in physical form, I had wings. However, I never had a halo. No, the angels of heaven do not have wings or halos. The one likeness to the Christian fantasy and that of a few other faiths is our common interest in all kinds of musical instruments, such as harps, which we make from supermatter. Some angelic beings do gather to play musical instruments fairly often.”

“Did I have wings?” I asked.

“No, Thomas.” he answered, “You, your superconscious mind in a Caeruli soul, were first born in a physical life form on a different planet than the one I came from. The people of your planet, named Langenth, were known as Landors. The people of my planet, named Skylor, were known as Aviacaels. There were others, from a planet named Aquamar, who were known as the Aquari. The people of those three planets together became known as Mercatorians. They traded with each other. Their home worlds, and colony planets, became known as the Interstar Trading Worlds of the Mercatorian Empire.”

The vast field of stars within the communications triangle of the ambassador shifted . . . and then showed three stars, more brilliant than the others, forming a 30-60-90 degrees triangle constellation . . . strangely familiar. “There was another world, which became our common home.” he told me. The field of stars shifted again. A number of brilliant stars formed a constellation in the shape of a cross . . . also strangely familiar to me.

“The star in the middle of the cross?” I asked.

“Yes. That’s the Cross Constellation, as viewed from the planet Langenth.” the ambassador confirmed. “The sun of the planet named Citra, a colony planet of the Mercatorians, which eventually became the capital planet and heart of their interstellar empire. You lived there, before you joined the expedition to this world. The sun of Langenth is one of the three stars of the Great Triangle Constellation, as viewed from colony planet Citra.”

“Did you came to this world on the expedition?” I asked.

“No.” he answered, without explanation.

“My name . . . was . . . I’m not sure I can pronounce it in its complete form . . . but there were initials . . . a name created from initials . . . MOT. I was MOT.” I remembered.

“Yes, MOT.” the ambassador confirmed. “The initials were a popular fad on colony planet Citra, known asfins. Frontier initial names. The family name was always the middle initial of a fin, and family names always began with a vowel. Your full name was Mutarus Tempus Omnia.”

“You had a name there, too.” I said.

“Yes, of course I did.” he replied.

“Your voice is familiar to me. I don’t hear it, but I feel your voice upon my soul, and it feels familiar to my superconscious mind.” I said, “But I don’t remember your name. Who…”

“Veritas Noctua Antiqu.” the Ambassador to Earth reminded me, “You knew me as Chief Veritas. I was the Chief of Interstar Trading Security there on colony planet Citra, which became the capital planet of the Mercatorian empire.”

“Yes. I remember…” I said, as my thoughts drifted back to that distant planet in ancient times.

“You were cleared for ascension.” he reminded me. “You were going to be sent home first. However, you came back here.”

“The starway to heaven. Terrantus Station!” I remembered those events, which happened between the end of my previous Earth human incarnation and my present life. I referred to what looked like a massive wheel-shaped space station, but located in buffer-space instead of physical space. Buffer-space, the realm between and separating the physical universe and the spiritual universe. Souls and spirits passing between the two universes would have to pass through stations. Terrantus Station is the spiritual way station for this planet.

“Yes, MOT.” he replied, “You came back here for a personal reason.”

“Marea Amor Exsequor.” I remembered, “My wife. A spiritual marriage.”

“That’s right, MOT.” he confirmed.

“I was Mutarus Tempus of the Omnia family from Langenth. Now I am Thomas Jefferson Harrow.” I said.

“Yes. MOT became Tom.” he confirmed. “The reverse, just a coincidence.”

“What became of Marea?” I wanted to know.

“Reincarnated one final time here on Earth, like you were. She is now known as Andrea Marie Sterling.” the ambassador informed me, “You will, in good time, be reunited with her.”

“Her final reincarnation.” I said, and thought about that. Then I asked, “How many times have our souls been reincarnated on this planet?”

“Between 400 and 500 times. Different for each soul.” he answered. “You are currently experiencing reincarnation number 451. You’ve had 451 human lives here on planet Earth after your Mercatorian life as a Landor from planet Langenth.”

“There is so much for me to remember.” I realized.

“In the nights to come, you will begin to have dreams, a series of dreams, unlike any dreams you have ever had before.” the ambassador told me, “You will find the answers to many of your questions within those dreams. Even so, not all of those dreams will remain within your conscious mind memory upon awakening. Some will be placed deeper then others, down in the well of your soul. Those will surface more slowly, and may be revealed at key turning points during your present human life.”

“Very well, Ambassador Veritas.” I replied. “Then what?”

“Through the looking glass, Tom will remember MOT. You will become reunited with Marea, in good time. You will also become reunited with many other Caeruli souls.” he assured me. “There were 12,301 Mercatorians on the expedition to this world they named Mirandus. A very few have been allowed to return home, and then to ascend into the spiritual Realm of Heaven with other Mercatorians. Most are still here, and alive in human form for one final reincarnation. Some are currently aboard Terrantus Station in buffer-space. One is missing. We are intently looking for that one, but that is another story I’ll tell you another time. I can tell you that the missing one was a stowaway aboard the Mercatorian starship, led the mutiny soon after arriving here, causing the Mercatorians on the expedition missions to become divided, and caused the destruction of the starship. Mercatorians, I mean their Caeruli souls on this world, now in human form, are still very divided. I need for you and Marea, and the others you will be reunited with, to help bring them back together. I must warn you there is a much greater common enemy awaiting your return to the stars. Their divide and conquer plan worked well against those on the expedition to this world. Caeruli souls on this world, in human form, must become reunited, in order to reclaim the Interstar Trading Worlds. The future can save the past, and the past can save the future.”

“I remember . . . the Teznites!” I shouted. “The Mercatorians were at war with the Teznites of the Teznite Empire.”

“Yes, MOT.” Veritas confirmed. “You must help to reunite Caeruli souls. Recover the Mercatorian starship technology. Then build the first Earth human starship. Do so in secrecy, because a common enemy is watching. Teznites have finally turned their attention to this planet. Even now, they are drawing their plans for a future invasion. Also, some Viridi souls have become possessed by demon Teznites, the spirits of dead Teznites who dwell in buffer-space. They are known to terrify buffer-space voyagers with nightmare images of eternal death in fire. The realm of buffer-space is also known as the hellfield. Starships can travel 666 times faster while in the realm of buffer-space than while in normal physical space.”

I understood all that, but my mind had shifted to another subject. “Are you saying we can’t trust the Earth humans who have Viridi souls?” I asked.

“Most of them are not evil. However, some of them are more easily won over by evil.” he explained, “Very likely, when they discover the existence of Caeruli souls and learn of their past, they will want to help Caeruli souls, while seeking Mercatorian starship technology with drooling enthusiasm. Their agenda will be different. You may trust some of them, but always with great caution. I will place a keyword phrase within the minds of all whom you may trust, as a means of recognition. This is for people who have Caeruli souls and other people who have Viridi souls. I am here to help light the way, is the approximate phrase, and it does not have to be those exact words. The key words are help light the way.”

“I will look forward to reunification.” I said.

“We have met before, and we will meet again. When we do, your memories will be clear and instant. Farewell, MOT.”

Abruptly, three points of light emerged from the midpoint of each side of the equilateral triangle, and moved toward the center of the triangle. As they became a single point of light, and then vanished, it reminded me of when our tube-type color TV was turned off, briefly leaving a glowing point of light at the center of the screen, slowly fading away. The equilateral triangle unfolded back into three 45-90-45 degree triangles in the upper southwest corner of the room. Then the walls and ceiling folded back into place.

Looking out the window, I could see the cars continue to drive down the main road. A bird landed in a tree near the window. The old man gardener then repositioned the hose, as the water continued to splash on down around the flowers. He briefly had an odd look on his face, as if a ghost had tapped him on a shoulder and gave him a chill.

Inside the classroom, the wall clock continued counting the seconds of time. The other students shifted in their chairs, as pages were turned. The teacher continued reading, and completed the paragraph she was on. Then she looked up and around, as if something was wrong. She glanced at the wall clock, and then briefly glanced at her own watch. The next student, to the left of the teacher, began to read the next paragraph.

Before it was my turn to read again, a bell rang out in the hallway.

“Class dismissed.” Mrs. Smythe announced.

Yes. Be assured. I was the first one out the door.

Sunday school. I didn’t much like it at all. As I was walking over to the main church building, looking for my sister and parents, and squinted my eyes in the bright sunlight, I had trouble remembering exactly what it was that had been bothering me about it all.

The students and teacher in that classroom were never aware of what had happened to me, between two moments of time. And because my memory of it was placed deep within the well of my soul, I could not tell my sister, parents, or anyone else about it, at that time.

The coming night would be different for me. In the past, I would turn on a light on the table by my bed, which had in it a blue light bulb. It was not that I was afraid of the dark, so much as having the fear of awakening in an unfamiliar place. It was like a lighthouse, as my ship was on a dark sea. However, on that Sunday night, I no longer felt the need for it . . . because the light within me had been turned back on, and it would save me from becoming lost again, or so I prayed…

+

It was the following Saturday night, when I first had a vivid dream about my contact with the Ambassador to Mirandus the previous Sunday. I believe the compressed time event was allowed to decompress during the dream. It was like dumping an entire book into my brain in a split second, instead of taking several hours to read during the normal flow of time. Memories of past events would surface within dreams and nightmares at night during following weeks. There is truly a vast gulf of difference between faith and fact, between believing something is true and knowing it is true. That difference, depending on how significant it is, can be a shock to the human mind, no matter how good the truth may be. Remembering the truth within a series of dreams can help to soften the shock of it.

Earth Year 1963 CE, May 19, Sunday…

The following week, I refused to go to Sunday school. It wasn’t that I was refusing to go to church . . . just Sunday school . . . but I gave the very strong impression my refusal included church completely. It then surprised me that my parents didn’t force me to go. Instead, I was allowed to spend that morning at the house of a neighbor, who wasn’t an active member of any church, but was known to be a good man and a good neighbor. Mr. Kay came from Chicago, and was a department store manager in Kansas City, on the Kansas side. Mr. Kay’s son, named Dean Charles Kay, who preferred to be called Chuck, same age as me that year, became one of my best friends at the age of 7.

The first Sunday morning, when I didn’t go to church, Chuck and I went to work, digging holes in a big pile of sand and rocks and dirt located by his front yard driveway. His parents, expecting to live there for many years, were in the process of improving the landscaping around their house in Hawthorn Hills. My house was at 7 Forest Drive with two driveways forming a half circle driveway, and the Kay house was at 9 Forest Drive with a normal single driveway. While Chuck’s parents did the yard work, which then involved planting some small bushes, Chuck and I played in the big pile, moving rocks, sand, and dirt.

As long as I live in this human form, I will clearly remember the smell of fresh dirt in the air there, mixed with the smell of fresh cut grass coming from another neighbor’s yard across the street. It is amazing that it did not trigger my asthma or any other allergy symptoms. However, my mother recently started taking me to a new doctor to treat my asthma and allergies. Doctor Frank N. Stein did a series of tests, and then prescribed a new kind of medicine. It worked fairly well. He was funny and had a great sense of humor. Each time he would see me, he would say, “There’s that little monster!” when greeting me, “It’s alive!”

Yes, I know. It was a Sunday “a day of rest” and we were “working.” I was digging a deeper, more vertical hole, than the one Chuck was digging sideways into the big pile of dirt.

“Hey, chuck. What are we looking for, anyway?” I asked.

“Treasure.” was his simple answer. He was missing one of his front teeth at that time, which made him sound a bit odd, and so he didn’t like to talk much.

“Hey, Chuck.” I pursued.

“Whut-iz-zit, Tom?” he replied. I let some of my friends call me Tom, instead of Thomas.

“It’s dark in this hole.” I told him, “I can’t see anything.”

“Okay. Wait-a-second.” He got up, brushed the dirt and sand off of his pants, and then ran over and into the open garage. Half a minute later, he came running back out. In his right hand he carried a flashlight.

“Good idea!” I shouted, as he switched it on.

Chuck leaned down and shined the light into the hole that I had been digging. “Gotta-go-deeper! Haven’t found-et!” Chuck determined.

“Okay.” I agreed, “You keep holding the light. I’ll dig.”

“I’m here ta-help light da-way.” Chuck told me.

Chuck’s particular choice of words caused a brief memory flash of the previous Sunday’s encounter I had with the spiritual being known as the Ambassador to Earth. I felt his words had special meaning. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was. Apparently something to do with trust. So I kept digging. I didn’t really expect to find anything. I thought we were just playing . . . just pretending to be looking for something.

When the hole reached the ground under the pile, I found something, and pulled it out. One of Chuck’s toy soldiers. It had been buried there when a truck came and dumped the dirt, sand, and rocks there.

Late that night, I began to have trouble sleeping.

Dreams, barely remembered upon awakening.

Nightmares, which would never fade away.

In one dream, I was Tom . . . but in that dream, people with very strange faces called me MOT. I could see them through his eyes . . . through my eyes. One, in particular, had her back to me, as she called my name.

“MOT. Help me fasten my necklace. I can’t get this one hooked.” she said, not in English, but in some other language. Even so, somehow I understood it.

“Okay, MEA.” I replied. So it must have happened before I got married to her and stopped calling her MEA. The fin, frontier initial name, for Marea Amor Exsequor. The family name is always the middle initial. MOT was the fin for Mutarus Tempus Omnia. MEA would have become MOA, if she were to take my family name in marriage.

I walked over to her. Marea had long brown hair, at that time, hanging down to her knees, with part of it in front, and most of it hanging down her back. I could see she was completely naked, even though her hair covered a lot. As I fastened her necklace, I felt her wrap her long tail around me, using her tail to pull me against her. I looked down at our feet, having six toes on each foot. I reached down and held her hands . . . noticing our hands of three long fingers between two thumbs on each hand. I looked into her eyes of vertical ovals . . . emerald green eyes, unusual for a Landor from planet Langenth.

“MOT.” MEA said, then asked, “Do you remember the night of the Three Moons Festival? We talked about the discovery of the new world . . . the planet we named Mirandus…”

My dream of yesterworld faded at that point, before I could answer.

I didn’t tell Chuck, at age seven, that I dreamed about a girl, even though she had a tail and was from another planet. I’m sure he would have got a laugh out of hearing about a naked alien girl! Anyway, that was just a fragment of other relating parts in a series of dreams. It would be many years before I’d describe those dreams in letters to Dean Charles Kay…

+

Let me tell you more about Dean Charles Kay…

At the end of the 1963-64 school year, the Kay family sold their house and moved away. It was a complete surprise to me, and possibly for Chuck, too. His father was promoted to regional manager of the department store chain he worked for. The promotion included the requirement if the Kay family being transferred to Washington, D.C. where the home offices of that department store chain were located then. The last of their moving vans pulled away from their house an hour after sunset. As the Kay family drove away in their 1964 Chevrolet family station wagon, Chuck turned on his flashlight and waved it in my direction.

As my family was also destined to move, the summer of 1964 was the last summer for our family at the Hawthorn Hills house.

Independence Day 1964 was the final time relatives and friends gathered at our home for that kind of big celebration. It included an afternoon picnic feast in the backyard and then shooting off hundreds of spectacular fireworks that night.

A week later, I got a picture postcard from Chuck, with a note on the back to tell me about the fireworks display he got to see there in the nation’s capital city. He also mentioned in the note that he wants to become a detective for his future profession, or maybe an FBI agent.

I mailed a reply letter to Chuck during the last week of July, 1964. However, I didn’t write anything about the strange girl, who I met during a summer evening when I was allowed to stay late at the Hawthorn Hills swimming pool…

+

Now, about Meg Stewart…

When she climbed up the ladder to get out of the pool, I thought she was naked. Instead of wearing a traditional, American, single-piece swimming suit, like most of the other girls there, she was wearing a two-piece bikini, which she brought from England. It was the the color of Caucasian tanned skin. The bottom part of the suit was so tight, it looked like it had been painted on. She noticed me staring at her with an odd look on my face, from where I was sitting at the edge of the swimming pool.

“What are you looking at?” she asked, as she was doing something with her shoulder-length dark-blond hair.

“Your swimsuit.” I answered, then asked, “Does it hurt, being that tight?” It was a sincere question.

“What’s your name?” she asked, as she walked around the corner of the pool toward me. “How old are you?”

“Thomas. You can call me Tom.” I answered, “I’m eight and a half.”

“My name is Meg. I’ll be eleven on August eleventh this year.” she told me, then asked, “So what do you know about women’s swimsuits?”

“I . . . uh . . . “ I tried to think of an answer.

“Does it hurt? It feels like THIS!” she shouted, as she reached down and pulled up on the back of my swimsuit. As she did so, she pushed me off of the edge and into the pool. Then she dove in after me.

“So that’s what it feels like.” I remarked, as I stood up in the shallow end of the pool.

“You don’t know what it really feels like, yet!” was the threat she made as she swam toward me.

My reply was to begin splashing her as effectively as I could.

“I like that!” she told me, “Splash me some more!”

This was not a normal girl. And her voice had an odd accent.

“You like being splashed?” I asked. I couldn’t believe my ears.

“I can smell the chlorine better when the water is being splashed like that.” Meg explained. “I love the smell of chlorine!”

“You do?” I replied, “Well, I guess I like it, too. I hadn’t really thought about it before. I never have any trouble with my asthma and allergies while I’m here swimming at this pool.”

“That’s because of the chlorine gas from all the chlorine tablets put in this pool.” Meg told me.

“What are you?” I joked, “A swimming pool scientist?”

“HA!” she shouted and laughed as she splashed me back.

“You want to have a splashing contest?” I asked her.

“SURE!” she answered, “But you’ll lose! And the winner gets to give the loser a spanking!”

“Oh, yeah?” I laughed. I didn’t take her seriously about that, so I countered with saying, “If I lose, then you can give me a kiss!” I laughed again.

I began to splash her more effectively. She began to back away toward the edge of the pool. As she reached the side, I asked, “Had enough?”

“Maybe.” Meg replied, “Do you want a kiss now?”

“I haven’t lost!” I splashed her some more.

“Okay!—Okay!—YOU WIN!” Meg surrendered . . . too easily I thought.

As she pulled herself up on the side of the swimming pool, and bent over the edge, I noticed her bikini bottom looked tighter than it did before. Without giving it much thought, I used my right hand to give her a playful single swat on her bottom. It made a loud BANG-splat sound, even though it wasn’t a hard swat. Even so, the sound made me look around to see if it got the attention of anyone else at the pool. Then I realized by then we happened to be the only ones in the pool area. A few people were out on the parking lot, talking as they were about to leave. The lifeguard was in the snack bar area. Sunset. The underwater lights built into the sides of the pool came on.

“There’s your swat.” I told Meg, “Are you happy now?”

“No, Tom.” she answered, “Do it again. I like the sting. Anyway, a single swat is not a spanking. You have to give me six of the best, and you have only given me one.” She sounded playfully serious.

Right then, I felt a sting on the top of my head. I screamed, and then went down under the water, where I brushed off whatever it was that was trying to sting me some more. After I got it off of me, I swam for the nearby ladder, and got out of the pool.

“What happened?” Meg asked me, as she climbed out of the pool and stood up by me at the side of the pool.

“Are you okay?” the lifeguard asked me, as he ran around the side of the pool. He heard my scream when I got stung.

“Some kind of an insect stung me on the top of my head!” I said to the lifeguard, and to Meg. Then I pointed to the dead thing floating on top of the water.

“That is a big insect!” the lifeguard observed, “I don’t believe I’ve seen one that big around here before.”

“Must be from another planet.” Meg joked.

The lifeguard gave her a serious look and made a strange remark. “They’re not here yet, I hope. We’re nor ready for them.”

Even though I knew she was joking, something about it and the lifeguard’s remark triggered a brief memory of . . . just a flash image of something like an insect, but not a flying insect . . . not one with wings . . . more like a spider . . . but it also looked like it might be part monkey. A Teznite, I recalled, but exactly when and where I’d seen one of those aliens I did not yet have a clear memory. No. the dead bug in the pool was not an alien. It only reminded me of those horrible creatures.

“Whatever it is, and wherever it came from, it’s dead now. It stung you and it died.” the lifeguard told me. “You must be one tough kid.” He was sort-of joking, too, just trying to make me feel better.

I felt a bump forming on top of my head from the sting.

“We better go to my office.” the lifeguard told me. “I’ll have a closer look at it there. By the way, my name is William Stewart.”

“I’m Tom Harrow.” I said. We shook hands. Then I followed him, and Meg followed us into his office next to the snack bar.

William Stewart, who looked like he was as old as my dad, inspected my insect bite. “Doesn’t look serious. You’ll be okay, Tom, but show it to your parents when you get home. If it looks worse then, or looks worse in the morning, then you should have a doctor check it.” he advised.

“Okay.” I agreed.

“Do you need a ride home?” he asked. “I’m closing the pool in a few minutes. We can give you a ride.”

“Yes, Tom.” Meg said. “You should see my uncle’s sports car. It’s a convertible!”

“Your uncle?” I asked, and looked at the lifeguard.

“Yes.” she replied, “I’m Meg Stewart.”

“My brother, in England, is Meg’s father.” the man said, then explained, “Meg has been visiting for the summer. She goes home in a couple of weeks. Then it’s back to school for her.”

“Don’t remind me, uncle Bill.” Meg said.

“I have my bicycle here.” I answered the question about a ride home. “I can get home on it.”

“You sure?” the man asked.

“Yeah, no problem.” I replied. “Thanks anyway.”

I left his office then, and Meg walked with me out to the parking lot.

My bicycle was chained to a light pole instead of the bicycle rack.

“That’s a nice chain.” Meg said, as I turned the four digits combination lock, and unhooked the chain. “May I see it, Master Thomas?”

“Sure…” I handed it to her.

Meg wrapped it around her thin waist, twice, and then she locked it. “Fits perfect!” she remarked. “Combination number four-one-two-three.”

“You can keep it. I have another bicycle lock at home.” I told her. “It does look good on you like that.”

“THANKS, Tom!” she shouted. Then Meg gave me a quick kiss right on my lips, which surprised me. “Now you’ve been stung twice in one night!”

“Yeah.” I went along with her joke. “First the insect, and then you!” I was surprised I liked her kiss.

“Pain can be pleasure, sometimes.” Meg informed me, “But only if you are stung on the right end!” She laughed, and then I did too.

“Actually, I’d rather not get stung on either end.” I replied, “Where do you get such alien ideas?” I really wasn’t expecting an answer.

“Dreams, barely remembered upon awakening. Nightmares, which will never fade away.” Meg seriously told me. I never forgot that.

“I’ve had trouble sleeping lately, too, but it doesn’t cause me to confuse pleasure with pain.” I replied. “Are all girls in England bad like you?”

“I’m not bad, but visit me there someday and find out!” Meg answered. “I’ll introduce you to my new friend, who I learned some of my alien ideas from. Very kinky. Her name is Andrea Marie Sterling.”

Something familiar about that name, I briefly thought to myself. “Sure. In about fourteen years. Maybe after college.” I said, “If I don’t die from this insect bite.” It still hurt some.

“If you live, come back to the pool tomorrow afternoon.” Meg invited me, and added, “I believe we have some unfinished business.”

“Okay, Meg.” I replied, as I got on my bicycle, and began to peddle off. “See you tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow!” Meg called after me, and waved.

But there was no tomorrow for Meg and me, and certainly not for her parents. Next day, at noon in London, when it was 6:00am in Hawthorn Hills, Meg’s parents were killed in a terrorist bombing at the restaurant they were having lunch at. By noon in Kansas City, William Stewart and Meg were aboard a military aircraft, which would take them to Washington, D.C. and then directly to London. I found out Will’s brother was an officer in a special branch of the British government, investigating the various terrorist groups threatening their part of the world.

Meg’s father, John Stewart, had two brothers, Andrew and William. Meg remained with her uncle Andrew. When William returned to the United States, he brought a letter for me from Meg. I got it from him at the Hawthorn Hills swimming pool. Her new address was noted on the envelope. In the letter she wrote about how she felt about the loss of her parents and of their murder.

Meg further wrote about life, death, and her belief in reincarnation. She wrote, “My original parents were not of this world. In my dreams and nightmares, I know that I have lived many lives before this life.” Meg closed her letter by asking me if I would like to be pen pals. In reply, I mailed a birthday card to her, and noted that I would like to be her pen pal.

I wrote about the Sunday school incident in a future letter to her. I told her about the Ambassador to Earth . . . and what I’d so far remembered about my past alien life from dreams and nightmares. Then she told me more about her best friend, Andrea Marie Sterling. I knew that someday I’d be reunited with my spiritual wife, my soulmate, an Earth human with an alien soul. We came to Earth from another world. Died here. Reincarnated. Soon, we will build Earth’s first starship. Then finally we will go home.

+ + +

Read about the fate of MOT in STARWAY TO HEAVEN.

+ + +

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