BACK HOME ON EARTH (Revised 09-18-2024)
After my encounter on the Mothership, the aliens graciously transported me back. Upon returning to Earth, my feet firmly planted on the ground, the most awe-inspiring sunset I had ever seen greeted me when I looked up. Its vibrant, heavenly colors stretched across the sky, affirming the extraordinary encounter I had just experienced.
Before they departed, the aliens imparted a profound message: “Your contributions will pave the way for the betterment of all humanity.” Their words resonated deeply, filling my soul with a radiant purpose and meaning. I knew my existence on this planet was valuable, and my actions would help shape the future.
As I stood there, gazing at the sky ablaze with colors, I felt a profound satisfaction, knowing that I had a mission to fulfill—like those who had come before me. I was determined to follow my destiny, confident that I was here for a reason, destined to make a difference for all humankind.
After meeting God
I returned, knowing that this was beyond what any four-year-old should possess. The universe had expanded in my mind, but I carried it all quietly, keeping my secret. My feet carried me back to the house as if nothing had happened, but inside, everything had changed. I walked through the door, greeted by the familiar sounds of home—the clatter of dishes, the low murmur of my mother’s voice—but I felt a distance, a gap between my small human form and the vastness of what I had just experienced.
I mentioned nothing about the Mothership or the beings. Nor did I speak of the Earth exploding and being reborn. Deep down, I knew that nobody would truly grasp what I experienced. So, I climbed into bed, holding onto the comforting embrace of my covers, desperately trying to comprehend it all. My thoughts raced, replaying the sights, sensations, and knowledge I had gained. Yet, as the night grew quiet, I peacefully drifted into slumber, physically exhausted but spiritually ignited with newfound purpose.
The following day, life continued as usual. My parents, siblings, and I prepared for the day, but something tugged at me—a memory of the church and my mother’s words about God watching over me. As I settled back into human form, my tiny psyche tried to explain what had just happened in terms that would fit my human reality. It was Sunday, which meant my family was getting ready to go to church, where I had learned that God lived in Heaven, always watching, always loving.
However, following my encounter aboard the Mothership, I realized that God’s presence extended beyond just Heaven; it encompassed everything and was omnipresent. Intrigued by this profound revelation, I yearned to explore and deepen my connection with this greater truth, and attending church seemed like the ideal way to do so. Believing I had recently encountered God, I desired to commune with them weekly.
I felt a personal connection with them, viewing myself as distinct and thinking they desired to continue our ongoing dialogue. As my mother helped me get dressed, the idea came to me—Sunday school. I had heard about it from my older siblings, a place where children went to learn about God. I had always been curious, but now, after what I had experienced, I felt a deep need to be there. Maybe Sunday school could help me make sense of the cosmic truths I had just witnessed.
After breakfast, I approached my mother, my voice small but determined. “Mom, can I go to Sunday School today?”
She paused, looking down at me with a gentle smile. “Oh, honey, you’re not old enough yet. Wait until you’re five. That’s the rule.”
Her words felt like a punch to my chest. Wait until I’m five? I felt a sharp pang of disappointment. Five seemed so far away, and I couldn’t understand why I had to wait. I wanted to learn now, explore the mysteries of the universe, and understand the God I had just reconnected with. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I held them back, nodding quietly as my mother busied herself with her church preparations.
I withdrew to a quiet corner of the house, heartbroken. How could I explain to her I needed to go now that my soul had awakened to something far greater than the everyday world I was living in? I wanted to understand, explore, and learn more about my profound, divine connection. I didn’t want to wait.
In my sadness, I felt a familiar presence return—my ET guide’s soft, comforting touch. Their telepathic communication was like a soothing wave washing over me, filling me with love and reassurance.
They said, gently but firmly, ” Ask her again.” You must go. It would be best if you started now. We will help.
I hesitated, afraid that my mother would say no again. But the guides’ presence filled me with quiet confidence. They were here with me, and I trusted them. If they said I should ask again, then I would.
So, I returned to my mother, tugging at the hem of her dress. “Mom, can you please ask the church if I can attend Sunday School? I want to go. Please ask them again.”
She glanced down at me, her brow furrowing in confusion. “I already told you, sweetheart, you’re too young. You have to wait until you’re five.”
“I know,” I whispered, “but can you ask them again? Maybe they’ll say yes.”
There must have been something in my voice, something that stirred Mother’s instinct. She looked at me more closely, perhaps sensing the unusual urgency in my request. After a moment, she sighed, clearly doubtful, but she agreed. “Alright, I’ll ask again. But don’t get your hopes up.”
Later that day, she returned from church with a puzzled expression. “You won’t believe what happened,” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “I spoke to the Sunday school teachers, and they said yes. They’ve allowed no one as young as you but made an exception.”
A rush of joy and relief flooded me, causing my heart to soar. I knew it wasn’t just luck. My ET guides had intervened, just as they had promised. With their assistance, the church agreed to let me in despite my age. The once-closed doors of Sunday school were now wide open to me. It was a strange victory. My mother and I were both baffled by the peculiar victory. Why would they break their own rule for me? They had never let a child younger than five join Sunday school, and as far as I knew, they never would again. They had made an exemption specifically for me.
Sunday School Before My Time
The following Sunday, my family and I walked into the church. A mix of excitement and nervousness filled me as I approached the Sunday school doors that had been closed to me before. On the brink of joining the older children in a place that had been off-limits until that day, I sensed a slight unease in the room as I glanced at the other parents and children. But my excitement overshadowed any negativity. I was determined to talk to God, and nothing could stand in my way now. Plus, with my mom by my side, she shielded me from any negative energy. Her presence was so engaging that I felt no hostility directed towards me.
Sitting among the other children, listening to stories about God and creation, I held onto my secret. I was not just a four-year-old girl eager to learn about God. I was an ancient soul connected to the divine in ways others could never understand. The lessons were simple and childlike, but I absorbed them with a deeper understanding, filtering everything through the lens of my cosmic experiences.
From that moment on, I knew I was being guided, not just by the church, but by something far more significant. My ET guides watched over me as God did, helping me along my path. Sunday school became a place where I could begin reconciling my human life with the vastness of my true identity. It was just the beginning of a journey stretching far beyond the church walls.
Other parents had kept their children in the nursery, waiting until they were the “proper age” to begin Sunday school. I was only four years old, and I had just barely received permission to start early. Mother, who was dropping me off, heard the whispers, saw curious glances, and felt the weight of their questions. Why her? Why now?
My mother had my back, endured it all, and kept it from me for many years. I found out much later when I got my annual attendance pin bar. The first year, you received the pin. Then, after perfect attendance, you get another bar attached to the previous one every year. I was so proud that I maintained perfect attendance year after year.
When I was 11, I was supposed to receive my 7th-year bar. But they gave me a 6th-year bar, which I already had, so that’s when the arguments began. They said, based on my age, I couldn’t have that many attendance bars. Around that time, I learned about what happened in 1958 when I started Sunday school.
One parent muttered something about fairness, how it didn’t seem right that I could join when their children had to wait. My mother had to fight them then and continued to hold them at bay year after year. I was proud of her and how she stood her ground. And she and my father became leaders in the church. The amount of volunteer work my parents did for the Orchard Avenue Presbyterian Church not only kept it afloat but made it grow.
As a deacon, my father cast his vote for integration—a decision I’m sure my mother wholeheartedly supported, though as a volunteer, she didn’t have a say on the board. I remember this vote bringing a wonderful black family into our church when I was young. Maybe they had formally requested membership, and the church needed to vote. It seems so odd now, but in the early ’60s, the world operated differently.
The father of this family was strikingly tall, with a voice that could rival an opera singer—rich, powerful, and captivating. His presence commanded attention the moment he stepped into a room. When he joined the choir, he elevated it to new heights. I vividly recall the Christmas pageant when he portrayed one of the three kings. As he entered from the back of the church, his deep, resonant singing sent chills racing up and down my spine.
I grew up watching Shirley Temple movies because my mother was a huge fan. She even made a scrapbook filled with cutouts from magazines and newspapers. I vividly remember watching Shirley dance with Mr. Bojangles in those old black-and-white films and being captivated by their friendship. During those years when my mother and I watched those movies, I had my first encounter with a black man up close.
Until that moment, I had never realized that there were black individuals in our church. It wasn’t until the Christmas Eve nativity reenactment that I saw a black man there. The sight brought me great joy, and I contemplated the possibility of finally getting to know someone like him. After all, Shirley Temple had a close friendship with a full-grown adult black man, so why couldn’t I? Seeing this fantastic person on Christmas Eve was my personal Christmas miracle.
In addition, as some of the older adult members passed, they left their homes and life savings for the church. By the time the church folded, they had more money than they knew what to do with it, so they gave it back to the central Presbyterian organization.
Back in 1958, when I was just four, I knew they didn’t understand. None of them, not even Mom and Dad, could have known about my connection with the ET guides or the mission that shaped my life, even as I stood there in my little Sunday dress. On the Mothership, I awakened to my eternal self, remembered where I came from and knew my immortal being. While I returned to the program, the unconscious child, the soul incarnating a human avatar in a symbiotic relationship for the duration of my life, a part of me would never forget.
But their concerns didn’t go unnoticed, and I wonder if they were part of their youngest child’s destiny as eternal souls. Perhaps my entire family was in a soul contract made before we agreed to come to the Earth. From what I understand, the ETs contact everyone, but only some awaken a select few, while others are mind-wiped and sent back to their unconscious state—often for their protection. The ETs needed my parents to stay healthy, both mentally and physically, so they could provide for me—feeding, housing, and clothing me—until I was old enough to be on my own. Even then, for many years, I still relied on them emotionally and psychologically.
It wasn’t until I met my third husband that I found myself in a beautiful situation, in the best hands, for the next phase of my life. It was then that my parents could finally let me fully become an adult and freely live my life, released from their human influence. They could pass over, go home to the other side, freed from the lifetime of pain they had carried from their PTSD.
The wars, the Depression, and the hardships of the 20th century had made their lives difficult and complex. They did their best to raise the three of us, but their old wounds often resurfaced, as raw as when WWII, the Great Depression, and life’s drama inflicted them. I had to learn how to remain empathetic and compassionate, free of judgment, and to love them unconditionally. Their wounds infected their lives, even if they weren’t aware of it. But it wasn’t easy dealing with the unconscious rage and reactions, not for me and not for those around us. Now that they are dead, they are always with me, hanging right over my shoulder, forever watching. Now and again, they come into my dreams. But as I get older, they rarely visit.
I wasn’t alone, though, in my new classroom. My best friend, Cherilyn, was sitting among the other children. She was a year older than me, and we were inseparable—like two peas in a pod. Cherilyn and I had grown up next door, sharing everything from playtime to secrets whispered across the fence that separated our houses. We were closer than most siblings; everyone always assumed I would follow her wherever she went.
The church leaders witnessed this bond, which finally swayed them to accept me into Sunday school early. Unlike the rest of the children and me, Cherilyn’s parents hadn’t baptized her at birth, so they had assigned her to a particular class for those who hadn’t gone through the traditional rituals. Somehow, this eased the concerns of the church members—maybe it made my early entry seem less unusual since Cherilyn herself was an exception in a way. We were different but were together, which seemed enough for the church to allow me in.
But as much as that comforted the adults, it didn’t quell the thoughts racing through my mind.
The unease I’d felt outside settled once I was inside, seated with the other children. I was where I needed to be, and I believed there was something to learn here to connect the God I had spoken to in my mind with the teachings I would receive. My guides had wanted me here for a reason, and I trusted that.
The first few weeks were uneventful. We learned the usual Bible stories, sang songs, and colored pictures of animals, prophets, and angels. I took part like the other children, but a part of me always felt separate, as if I were watching everything from a distance. I couldn’t eliminate the feeling that our understanding was only superficial. It seemed like a more profound truth awaited discovery, but its core wasn’t easy to understand.
Noah’s Ark
Then, we came to the story of Noah’s Ark.
I had heard bits and pieces of the story before from my family, but this time, something inside me shifted as the teacher fully unfolded the tale. As she described how Noah gathered two of every kind of animal and placed them on a boat to survive a great flood, a sense of disbelief crept over me. Two of every kind of animal? How could that be possible?
See more, next story…..
This article is featured in Dragon at the End of Time: Cosmic Rights coming in Winter 2024.
DRAGON AT THE END OF TIME: COSMIC RIGHTS
In Cosmic Rights, 1962 and 1963 present pivotal moments for Earth and the broader cosmic struggle for equality and justice. Both extraordinary advancements and profound challenges marked these years as humanity grappled with its growing identity on Earth. At the same time, a deeper awareness of cosmic rights—the inherent rights of all beings across the universe—took root.
1962: A Year of Contrasts
1962 was a year defined by contrasts: fear and hope, innovation and crisis. The Cuban Missile Crisis was a hazardous period during the Cold War when the world came close to the brink of nuclear annihilation. This showdown between the U.S. and the Soviet Union symbolized the dangers of unchecked power struggles, just as cosmic beings in the stars observed similar challenges in their realms. In this tension, beings in the stars observed identical challenges in their realms and sowed the seeds of cosmic rights. This idea echoed across the universe, envisioning a future where no being lived in fear of obliteration by another, regardless of their world.
Meanwhile, space exploration offered hope. John Glenn’s historic orbit around the Earth was not just a triumph for America; it symbolized humanity’s potential to explore beyond Earth and encounter other civilizations, further highlighting the importance of universal, or cosmic, rights. As civil rights protests swept across the United States, demanding equality for all, these earthly struggles mirrored a greater cosmic calling—the right to freedom, dignity, and respect for all beings, no matter their origin.
Cultural revolutions simmered. The rise of psychedelics and the youth rebellion against the status quo suggested that humanity was awakening to a broader consciousness. These movements pushed the boundaries of art and culture and opened doors to new ideas about unity and rights beyond Earth. The cosmic rights framework calls to recognize all sentient beings, urging a world where Earth’s civil rights struggles reflect the larger cosmic order.
1963: The March Toward Justice
The civil rights movement experienced a significant upswing in 1963, with influential figures such as Martin Luther King Jr. emerging as vigorous proponents of racial equality. The Birmingham campaign in April and the March on Washington in August were watershed moments in the fight for civil rights, culminating in King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. King envisioned more than just racial harmony on Earth in his dream.
However, 1963 was also a year marked by profound sorrow. The world was stunned by the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, which served as a powerful symbol of how fragile progress can be. Kennedy had advocated for civil rights, and his death marked a sad reminder that the fight for equality—on Earth and across the cosmos—was far from over. Losing such a figure underscored the sacrifices required to secure the rights of all. Meanwhile, distant civilizations understood Earth’s chaos and recognized that their struggles mirrored the plight of humanity.
The fight for cosmic rights—the rights of all beings, whether human or extraterrestrial—has taken on new resonance these years. As humanity grappled with its inequalities, the universe looked on, with civilizations across the cosmos envisioning a future where every sentient being, whether from Earth or distant planets, could live freely without fear of oppression or injustice. 1962 and 1963 were chapters in Earth’s history and a crucial moment in the unfolding story of cosmic justice—where civil rights and cosmic rights converge in the fight for universal dignity and equality.
Long Narrative for 1962-1963 from Janet’s Perspective:
When Janet turned eight on February 6, 1962, she felt the world was catching up to what she had always known about the universe. The Space Race was in full swing, and John Glenn’s orbit of the Earth just days after her birthday filled her with excitement. It was a tangible sign that humanity was finally reaching out to the stars. Having had extraterrestrial contact, Janet knew how vast and full of life the universe was, but the rest seemed far behind. Though small in her eyes, this progress gave her hope that one day, she wouldn’t have to hide her knowledge of extraterrestrials.
But fear cast a shadow over her optimism. Living in Pittsburgh, a city that was a top target for nuclear strikes because of its steel mills, the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962 terrified her. The threat of nuclear war felt immediate, and the fear in the air was overwhelming. Janet understood more than most how fragile Earth was but knew that extraterrestrial beings wouldn’t step in to prevent such a disaster. The lessons of peace and unity had to come from within humanity, making the crisis even more challenging. For days, she lived with the fear of an impending catastrophe, feeling helpless in the world’s face’s fragility.
Amid the fear, there were glimpses of a hopeful future. When The Jetsons premiered in September 1962, it offered Janet an escape. The futuristic world of flying cars, robots, and space-age technology felt like a vision of what Earth could become. It wasn’t just a cartoon to her—it was a possibility, a look at how humanity could live in harmony with advanced technology. The Jetsons gave her hope that the world might someday embrace the future she knew was possible from her extraterrestrial encounters.
As 1963 began, Janet turned nine and found even more reasons to feel excited about the future. That year, she discovered the juvenile books of Isaac Asimov and Robert Heinlein at the library. Their stories of space exploration, technology, and humanity’s potential spoke to her in profound ways. Asimov’s logical, futuristic worlds and Heinlein’s adventurous spirit mirrored the reality Janet already knew. These weren’t just fictional stories—they were windows into the possibilities humanity could achieve. Discovering these books made her feel like life was about to get exciting as if humanity was on the cusp of something greater.
In 1963, her love for science fiction expanded through television and film. The Outer Limits, which premiered in September 1963, offered stories of eerie alien encounters and strange technologies. With each episode, Janet’s conviction grew stronger: the universe was a vast expanse of the unknown, and humanity had just unraveled its mysteries. Meanwhile, The Twilight Zone continued to captivate her with its explorations of human nature, morality, and the mysteries of the universe. It reflected many themes, Janet pondered as she thought about Earth’s potential and flaws.
Movies like The Day of the Triffids (1962) also captured her imagination, though in a more exemplary way. The film’s portrayal of alien plants taking over the Earth reminded her of the planet’s vulnerability to forces beyond its control. In Janet’s eyes, it was a metaphor for humanity’s dangers if it didn’t learn to unite and protect itself from more significant threats. The time’s speculative fiction mirrored her concerns about Earth’s future and its place in the larger universe.
But 1963 wasn’t all about hope and excitement. The assassination of President John F. Kennedy in November hit her hard. Janet admired Kennedy, believing he could guide humanity toward peace, progress, and the eventual acknowledgment of extraterrestrial contact. His death felt like a step backward, a loss of potential that weighed heavily on her. As the nation mourned, Janet mourned for the president and the future she hoped he could help create. It was a profoundly personal sadness, as if the world had lost a chance to grow and develop.
Still, the Civil Rights Movement offered a glimmer of hope. Janet admired Martin Luther King Jr. and the brave souls who marched for equality. In space, she knew, beings of all kinds coexisted in peace and harmony without the divisions of race or nationality. However, those divisions were prevalent on Earth, and Janet found herself surrounded by individuals who could not look beyond their own lack of knowledge and animosity. It was frustrating, but the courage of the civil rights activists gave her some faith that Earth could still change for the better.
Music also provided some solace. The Beatles’ rise and the beginning of Beatlemania in 1963 filled Janet with excitement. Their music represented a new cultural wave, something fresh and unifying. She got caught up in the frenzy, finding joy in how the Beatles seemed to unite people. It was a reminder that even in a world full of fear and uncertainty, there was still room for creativity, happiness, and shared experiences.
As Janet looked back on 1962 and 1963, she felt complex emotions. She was excited by the advancements in space exploration, the rise of science fiction, and the cultural shifts brought by music and civil rights. But the shadow of fear, ignorance, and tragedy loomed large. The world had so much potential, but its divisions and fears held it back. Still, Janet held onto the hope that one day, humanity would rise to meet its destiny among the stars.
If you are interested in purchasing this book, email janetlessin@gmail.com.
