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The Things that are Meant to Be. Maybe.
He was just a few weeks short of his eighteenth birthday. Already for some eleven years had he known the regular
Celestial Visitors that entered his home, seemingly by magic. Already he knew he would work with them in years to
come, and already he knew he would live in a land far away. He had named these unusual insights “Future Potentials.”
They were prospective happenings of a future time and, likely, they would come about if he followed his instincts.
They were “things that were meant to be.”
What he didn’t know was that something unexpected would interfere with the plans the universe had given him
previews of. It arrived in the form of a Defense Force call-up, and he was to join a crack regiment that would protect
dignitaries from all countries, even royalty.
The family was ecstatic, extended family congratulatory, and one enterprising fellow even had his music band compose
a song for the occasion, as well as having a few dozen gramophone records cut from that song. The seventeen-year-old
was hardly concerned about delaying his college studies. Entering service would be a welcome change. His older sibling
by more than seven years had much to say about it. Maybe he was jealous, maybe not, but he had been in the infantry,
and despite his brilliant mind, hardly been promoted.
“You’ll crawl through endless mud puddles,” he told the younger man, “drive a three-meter high
tank through a canal that’s four meters deep, and jump from a plane at eight thousand meters.” That all
sounded just great! “But with your glib tongue you will do many extra runs around the track with a full backpack,
and that sergeant from Indonesia will sure lick you into shape.”
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He was on the track with a full backpack with just two of twenty laps to go at a jogging pace, and watching himself
run, knowing he was not at all sorry about speaking up when his mouth should have been clamped shut. He had always
been a great runner, an untiring swimmer, and forty laps should have been fine as well. Suddenly he staggered off
the track, clasped at his chest and fell face down on the grass by the side of the gravel.
A short, stocky, oriental man in uniform casually walked up to him, kicked his boot underneath him and turned him
over without using his hands. “He’s dead,” was his unemotional response to the trauma. The man shrugged
and walked away, signaling some nearby recruits to take care of what had dared to spoil his pleasant afternoon.
The dreamer woke up in a sweat, knowing this had been another future potential—a message forwarded from Paradise,
where all things of all time past, present and future are already known.
Within the space of three short weeks he was out of the place, and in “the land far away” as if by magic.
He’s your list-op and the designer of your Akashic Construct.
May your mind always be at peace, your intuition sharpened, your guides by your side, and may your future potentials
be the good things that are meant to be.
© 11:11 Progress Group.
Toujours au Service de Michael.
11:11 Angels
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