Dear Saints,
I hope I do not put some readers off with the following strange tales of UFOs, Inner Aliens and messages from Angels. It is not that I hold such a fascination for these things that I need to share them with others. It is only that when I was 9 or 10 years old, these subjects become a large and vital part of my life, indeed part of my survival, and I cannot offer a sincere Testimony of how I finally came to Christ without disclosing these earlier things to you.
“Even if I testify about Myself, My testimony is valid, because I know where I came from and where I am going. But you do not know where I came from or where I am going. You judge according to the flesh; I judge no one.”
This writing is dedicated to Fiona Barnett, for opening my eyes.
In part 1 on my Testimony I explained how I had been born into a civil war known as The Troubles, which lasted here in Northern Ireland, or Ulster, for thirty years. I also explained several other factors which further embroiled me in warfare, both material and spiritual. These included my own father’s participation as a balaclava-clad terrorist in the conflict, and my early encounters with the devil and with the presence of Christ Jesus.
Part 1 can be read here: ‘A Child Soldier: Part 1’.
This theme of warfare was not confined to these early years of boyhood. It only continued as I grew taller. At the same time another theme in my life began to emerge as I turned increasingly towards ways of escape. I began to seek a way out.
Escape To The Woods
The first real home that I recall in detail is the same house that was raided by the British Army one night when we were all asleep, as previously described in Part 1. I lived in this house up until around the age of 10. It was located in a pleasant corner of the same working class area where I spent my formative years. An area that was backed by a railway line and bordered on another side by the playing field of the local primary school, which I attended. The back of my house overlooked this playing field.
The school itself was built on the site of an old British colonial fort. The site had become some form of gentrified estate after the fort had fallen into disuse, so that exotic trees like Giant Redwoods had once been planted there where only the plain grassy expanse of the school playing field now existed. By the time I found myself living there, all that remained of these wonderful specimens of trees was a strip of woodland running along the edge of the railway line, which attracted many birds and other small species of animals. Of course as a boy I was drawn to this strip of old woods and by the excitement of the railway line – which could be easily and dangerously accessed by children, and where trains regularly flashed by at high speed, since it was a busy route between Belfast and my hometown.
Sometimes with friends we would play up on the railway line. We would put our ears to the metal rail and listen like Apache for the faint rumblings of approaching trains. We would place an old penny coin on the tracks to see what would happen when a train ran over it. And sometimes we would play chicken with the trains, much to the distress of the poor drivers gaping at us as they narrowly flew past, and leading to occasional visits to the school by the police who would warn local children of the dangers they were risking by showing us big blown-up pictures of the remains of people killed by trains. We entirely ignored these valid concerns for our safety.
In the woods themselves, I would often go by myself just to be away from the world for a while. Usually I would take my dog, Free, a Golden Retriever. One time in my solo explorations, right next to the railway fence, I found an ancient cannon ball unearthed by an uprooted tree. A real heavy-as-stone cannon ball that had been made two or more centuries ago for firing out of smooth-bore cannons. My mother helped me carry it to the town’s museum. A fluff article was even written in the local newspaper with pictures – ‘Local boy finds cannon ball’.
Losing Free
My one loyal friend and companion over these early years was my Golden Retriever, called Free by my liberal parents after the lion film ‘Born Free’.
Free had been brought to me as a puppy when I was just a little baby boy. So we had grown up as a pair, and he accompanied me everywhere and we did everything together, all my exploring and escapism, and whenever he had to be locked up so we could go somewhere into town or whatever he would howl like mad to come with me. Free was fiercely loyal and protective, qualities that I have never once encountered in human friendships. Free would defend me from the many bullies in the area, drawn to the quiet kid who was more often alone than not. He would be right next to me, pressed against my hip, snarling and scaring them away whenever they threatened me harm.
I loved him like I loved nothing else in the world.
When I was 9 I came home from school one day to find my mother and younger brother in tears. Free had been found dead on the railway line, having been struck by a train. I could not fathom it. He had always scarpered fast whenever any trains had been approaching. I did not even know why he had been up there on the line of his own. I suspected it was because I had not been bothering with him so much lately – had been more focused on human friendships – and he had been missing me. So it was doubly my fault, for playing up there with him on the railway line in the first place and then for putting him to one side like I had.
And now my best friend was gone.
Guilt is a terrible thing to bear. I know now that the only way to be free of it is to truly repent in the eyes of your Creator, and to pray fervently for those you have wronged. But that option was not open to me back then. I knew nothing about these things.
Worse than guilt is the loss of a loved one, which is by far the hardest thing for any of us to bear in life. Death is such an unnatural event, and we do not seem even remotely prepared for it. Within a single instant the whole world you are standing upon is ripped out from under you so that suddenly you are falling, terrified, into a vacuum of loss where only moments before there was daylight and love and belonging.
It is not how things are meant to be, and we know this most of all when we are plummeting into the depths of grief.
And it changes your entire perception of life. When you realise that this everyday half-asleep existence of routines that we lead, in which we perceive some sense of security by those routines, is in fact an illusion. That at any moment, any one of us might pop out of existence without warning or after a prolonged nightmare of suffering. It changes the entire way you think about loving others and forgiving others and what is truly important in life.
I never had a dog again. I could not face going through that willingly a second time. And in a way, I did not feel like I deserved to have another dog.
I wept for a long time.
And then I returned to my mission of trying to escape from my troubles.
Throwing Myself Into The Wind
After this I noticed a change in myself. It coincided with watching action adventure movies like Raiders of the Lost Ark and Star Wars. I was drawn to the dangerous stunt work in these movies, and to the work of stuntmen in general, and became something of a daredevil.
I started launching myself off shed roofs into hedges, and climbing a great many very tall trees, and walking on ice whenever the local river froze over in winter to see how far I could go before it started to crack under me. In children’s playgrounds I would spin the roundabouts as fast as they would go, then let myself be dragged round and round on the ground like I was Indiana Jones holding on to a whip attached to a moving truck. When I was given a bike for Christmas I went crazy on it, doing insane ramp jumps (without any safety gear) which one time put me in hospital with concussion. I even wrote off my friend Campbell’s brand new shiny-gold BMX, by taking an eight foot dirt slope at full speed and flying so high and far that I completely lost control in mid-flight, and ended up crashing onto tarmac in a heap in which thankfully the bike took most of the impact, so that its two heavy wheels buckled inwards rather than my skull.
Essentially, for a number of years, I flung myself at the world and dared it to kill me.
It was not that I wanted to end my life. I possessed enough courage to do such a thing if I wanted to. But I desperately wished to end the life I was then living and to escape into something else, something better. Which is the true definition of a ‘deathwish’, that you do not so much wish to end your life as to end your torment (otherwise you would kill yourself and be done with it) – you simply do not know how to.
So I cast my life, my soul, into the wind as a thing no longer belonging to me. And this attitude created a freedom from fear of death, and a lack of care about my own life, which remained with me for the rest of my years as a true blessing and boon, most of all when I became a saint. For this is the very attitude which the saints must embrace on their cross.
It was during this phase when I discovered how I could be fearless whenever I wanted or needed to be fearless.
At this time, my primary school had been taking us to the local swimming pool to learn how to swim. On about the second lesson, before most of us and especially myself had barely learned how to even dog-paddle without drowning, the swimming instructor gathered us by the side of the pool and pointed out to us the diving boards that stood at the deep end. The lowest board was only five or so feet above the water. The second was accessed by winding wooden steps and was much higher. The third board was also accessed by further sets of steps, and hung up there far above our heads just below the ceiling of the tall building.
The instructor asked for volunteers for the first board, and some children stepped forward to do it. He then asked for volunteers for the second board, and a few of the braver kids climbed the steps and jumped off after some hesitation. We all watched as they took what seemed to be long moments before coming back up out of the depths of the disturbed water. He then asked for volunteers for the third and highest board, and the whole group shrank backwards.
A girl who I was particularly keen about was standing in the group. ‘I can do this,’ I remember thinking. ‘This is stuntwork. This is what I do.’ So before I knew what was happening I found myself stepping forwards and volunteering to jump from the top board. I could barely even stay afloat in water, and had never jumped from such a height before – or in fact from any of the pool’s boards at all – and here I was volunteering to jump off the very highest one on my first go.
It was a long and lonely climb up. When I finally made it all the way to the top, and stood there at the edge of the board looking down at the water and the tiny faces of my classmates all watching me, my guts tried to hide themselves away in some pit of gibbering despair. I am no better with great heights than anyone else, and when I looked down with my toes on the very lip of the board I felt sick inside, like I was about to throw up. It was much higher than I had reckoned it to be, and the surface of the water looked hard and uninviting, less like yielding liquid and more like a surface to break my legs on. Even in my own death-defying and fearless attitude, it suddenly seemed to be a very risky and silly thing to be asking a child to do, especially one who had barely learned to dog-paddle. I had never even swum in the deep end before. I had yet to go beyond depths where I could not touch the floor of the pool with my toes. Even if I made the jump, was I going to be able to regain the surface and swim back to the side?
What had I been thinking of? And what the hell was I going to do now?
I spotted the girl again who I liked down amongst the group watching me. And in that moment I knew that shame and public humiliation were far worse things than death itself, so I just switched off the fear, like turning off a light. And it left me.
I committed myself to be brave and not to yell during the plummet, and then I took a step off the board and I was falling, falling far longer than I had been expecting so that as my insides all squished upwards with acceleration I indeed heard some kind of yell erupting from me. The crash into the water was way more violent than I would have imagined. I swallowed water, and then I realised how deep I was just as I stopped descending, and started groping for the surface with chlorine stinging my eyes and barely a wisp of air left in my lungs – for a moment not even sure if I could make it in time. I was in my element though, do-or-die mode, with everything ultra-real and vivid, and when I came back up the class was cheering like they had just witnessed a carnival show where someone had risked their life and barely made it.
No one else volunteered to jump the top board that day.
And I can still remember all the admiring looks of the girls.
Escaping Capture
One day alone in the old woods, two men tried to grab me.
I do not recall what they looked like nor why I started running. I only remember seeing two men stepping between the trees just as they spotted me, and how I took off like a hare. When I glanced back I saw them tearing after me. They were not police officers, and maybe this is what I had first feared. But now that they were giving chase I knew a much greater fear, for the local police were nothing compared to two strange men chasing me in silence. And my dog was not with me either, my usual bodyguard and protector. I was on my own.
Running in full flight, I could see the playing field through the trees off to the right. I could even see the houses of my street where I lived, and their gardens which backed on to the playing field, including my own. But my pursuers were still off to the right of me too. As I was about to cut across for the playing field and home something inside checked me – a sudden knowledge that if I broke into the open they would run me down in seconds. So instead I veered left, heading for the railway line though away from the relative safety of home. I can still recall that sensation.
A solid fence ran between the edge of the woods and the steep embankment that lead up to the railway line. The fence was made of old rail sleepers that were stood upright in the ground, though someone had once made a way through it by partially dislodging one of the hanging sleepers and shoving it aside, while it still hung from the uppermost fencing wire, and where the bottom had rotted. The gap this had created was narrow and required a twisting of the torso to get through. It was close to the spot where I had found the cannon ball.
In a second I was through the gap and scrambling up the embankment. I could hear a train coming and hoped I would lose the two men by taking more risks than they would take. Even as I reached the top of the embankment the train was already hurtling past from right to left, its windows flashing higher than my head with passengers sitting inside or gazing out from a different world entirely – a world of seeming safety and normalcy that I had found myself, by that age, beginning to yearn for. I heard a shout behind and so I cut along the top of the embankment, racing along the side of the passing train but in the opposite direction to it. I did not know if they were coming up the embankment after me, or if the train was holding them back for a moment, but I was aware that if they were still in pursuit they would chase me down quick enough as soon as the train was gone.
Just as the tail of the train flew past, drawing with it a momentary gust of air and diesel fumes, I launched myself into the tall grasses that grew alongside this portion of the embankment – a good six foot salmon leap that took me clear over the border of the grasses until I crashed onto my back in the midst of them, and lay there unmoving like a young deer.
I could hear footsteps crunching along the gravel and coming towards me. I was very frightened at this point, now I had taken to ground and with nowhere left to run. As the men grew nearer and nearer I tried to stop panting and hold my breath. I even closed my mouth so they would not hear my yammering heart. And then there they were, two figures stepping past my hideout, muttering something to each other, looking for me, looking for tracks and peering into the grasses. Two figures who meant me no good at all.
But they soon gave up looking. After a minute their footsteps faded away back the way they had come.
I did not move from my hiding spot. I believe I lay there and waited for a very long time, before eventually heading home.
Escape To The Sky
After this I found myself starting to look upwards at the trees quite a lot, with ideas in my head of constructing some kind of tree-hut or platform in their heights, somewhere I could still get away from the world while remaining safe from incursions of the world.
Things were getting weird all around me. With bombs and shootings and kidnappings going on almost on a daily basis, there was now talk of men driving cars at night into the area I lived and enticing children into them. I knew a boy who had been snatched into a car by two men in this way – and he refused to speak of what had happened to him. And now I had been chased by men onto the railway line.
The biggest tree in the woods, and also my favourite, was a Giant Redwood, or giant sequoia, which is not a native Irish tree at all but comes from California, as you no doubt already know. These sequoia grow surprisingly well in our soggy climate of Ireland, and with a life-span of over 2000 years, no-one yet knows how tall they can grow here (so far the tallest are over 170 feet tall). This particular sequoia was one of few remaining survivors of all the exotic trees planted there during a more gentile time. A hangover from a different age.
Being centuries old, it was between 100 and 150 feet tall. Quite literally between 100 and 150 feet tall. It was my favourite tree in the woods due to its magnificent trunk covered in red bark that felt spongy when you pressed it with your hand, and for the great thick boughs that were perfect for climbing. If I looked from just the right position on the ground I could make out the stubby boughs at the very top of the tree, and how they spread out around it like a crown. To my innocent eyes, that high, high crown of stout branches seemed the perfect place to build a refuge from the world.
I tried scaling the massive sequoia. The boughs were so thick and smooth and free of gnarly branches that it was a pleasure to climb them – almost an invitation to climb them. But eventually I came to a section where the next set of boughs above my head were much too far to reach. I was very high up at this time. But there seemed no way to go any higher.
Next day I came back better prepared. My father was a carpenter, or a joiner, so tools and nails and scrap wood – along with the confidence to do things with them – came easily to hand. With scraps of wood tucked into the back of my jeans, nails in the back pocket, a claw hammer hooked through a belt loop, I started the climb again. And this time when I reached the first section where I had been forced to stop the day before, I took out a scrap of wood and hammered it to the trunk with three-inch nails. Then I took out another scrap of wood, hammered that above the first, and slowly built a ladder upwards. The ground was a long way beneath my feet as I put my weight on the first rung and started climbing the improvised ladder. But it worked, it held my weight, and I made it to the next set of boughs without falling to my death. Ten, twenty feet later, I came to another section where the next set of boughs were well beyond my reach. Again I took out the strips of wood and nailed them to the trunk and fashioned another section of ladder. Again I hauled myself up this. I was extraordinarily high at this point, the trunk thinning enough that I could feel the gentle sway of the great tree beneath me.
Eventually I succeeded in making it to the very top. And what joy! To be so high! I was over 100 feet above the ground. From that high vantage, the highest in the woods, I could survey the whole area around me, the houses, the railway line, the green playing field leading up to the school on its promontory. And yes, just as I had hoped from my sightings on the ground, each of the boughs around the trunk here sprouted out horizontally for some feet before curving upwards, creating a crown. They would be perfect for laying some planks across and building a platform.
So next day I returned with more supplies – rope and planks of wood. I did not have enough rope to reach all the way to the top – barely a fraction of that. So I hauled piles of planks up in sections, like a mountaineer, negotiating boughs and ladders in turn, and assembled them all upon the crown, where I nailed them down with those big three-inch nails until I had built a sturdy enough deck to support me.
The trunk creaked as it swayed in currents of air. It was remarkably silent and still up there. The same hush you find on the slopes of mountains. And the heavens above me – the heavens were closer and more prominent than ever before, soaring with their endlessly blue promise.
Back then, in the very early 1980’s, before the endless spraying of geoengineering really ramped up globally, the sun retained its wondrously warm yellow complexion and the clouds were a marvel, for they were still real. Great big fluffy white galleons sailing upon the day’s heat, forming endless shapes to provoke the imagination. Sometimes they would be caught in updrafts and would rear up into towering mountains impossibly high, like thunderheads but without the thunder, like heavenly alpine slopes covered in snow.
Or the beautiful cirrus clouds, so high in the atmosphere they were barely seen by the eye.
Clouds fascinated my young mind – these massive tonnages of water just floating through the air! Sheets of vapour ice drifting through the high heavens!
It was like marvelling at the impossible wonders of a strange but exciting alien planet.
And the sky itself was still relatively clear too, still that brilliant blue dome which darkened right over your head, deepening the longer you stared into it until you felt you were perceiving the very fringes of space. It felt like a promise to me of better things to come, and I stared at it with endless fascination and hunger.
So up in my tree I settled in. Day after day I would escape into the woods and when I was sure I was not being observed I would scale my giant Redwood all the way up to the platform I had constructed at its crown. And there I would perch on the edge with my legs dangling far above the ground, observing the rare invasion of someone else walking through the woods entirely unaware that I was up there watching them. Or I would sit with legs outstretched and my back against the soft bark of the trunk, being rocked by the tree, the world below forgotten, just taking in the clear sky and the sun and the clouds and the birds and white specks of airliners and the occasional daylight moon and even the rare hint of a star.
In those precious hours I would experience a sense of liberation, something of escape from the evils in my life; the actual emotional experience of liberation after many years of captivity. It was very powerful, and not something I was familiar with. In fact I had only ever experienced it once before in life, or at least sensed it as a future hope, a future promise, when stories about Jesus in Sunday School had reduced me to tears.
Somehow, freedom and Christ were the same thing. Yet I was unable to connect to this truth for many decades to come.
The longer I observed those sunny clear skies though, the more I realised that I belonged up there rather than down in the warfare of the world below. I began to feel the call of this very clearly. I began to perceive a knowing sense, deep in my heart or in my intuition – name it what you will – that someone or something was calling me home, and that I longed to be there.
I believe this was when I first fell in love with the heavens, always observing and being aware of them, and when they first became a constant presence of hope and wonder in my life.
This is why my first-born son is called Sky.
And this is why I find it such a trial now that we have lost the skies here in Ireland – now they have been sprayed to oblivion. For we live in an age where the Enemy has robbed us of the heavens themselves, and our children do not even know what a real sky is.
Seeing Unidentified Flying Things In The Night Skies
The night skies were much, much clearer too in those days. Not only were there many more clear nights than cloudy ones (whereas these days we are almost always entirely clouded over at night), but Earth’s atmosphere itself was not yet buried in layers of particulate spraying, so you could see more than just the basic constellations and major stars like you do now. In fact on most nights you could enjoy a remarkable canopy of stars and nebula and galaxies even from urban areas lit by sodium street lighting, and even when there were clouds these were still partly visible – for cloud layers were usually the broken up and scattered natural kind rather than the endless smothering blankets of modern times which cause weeks of twilight conditions*.
* (In the aftermath of 9/11, when all planes were grounded in the US for a week, it was reported that levels of daylight had increased there by 25% due to jet fuel – and of course, unreported, the lack of spraying. These days, I estimate that levels of daylight here in Ireland to be around 50% less than normal. Across the West as a whole, at least a third of the skies have been darkened).
On many nights you could gaze at the stars and colourful incandescent gasses of the Milky Way – the very centre of our galaxy as seen along its edge – from your front driveway, and if you stared long enough at the inky blackness on either side of that flowing river of milky light, your vision would adjust so effectively that everywhere you looked, with the corner of your eye, you would see tiny previously unseen stars pricking into existence – like your sight was creating them in brush strokes of attention – until the whole night sky revealed itself to be a sea of distant suns; literally thousands of ever-so-subtle distant suns. My mouth would hang open, catching the cool night air.
I grew into the habit of watching the night sky every night it was visible. I would look forward to it during the day, and by night it became another escape from the world. While the civil war of the Troubles raged on and my own home life continued to be a living torment, I would look forward to the still hush of night when the whole wicked world had gone to sleep and I could stand there at the window in my jammies, behind the drawn curtains, spending hours in splendid isolation observing the night skies in all their wonder.
I saw moons so clearly detailed with craters and mountains and vast dust-seas that it was like studying the contours of another world.
I saw a fiery tear falling from heaven, as big as my thumb against the steamy window pane. It fell as slowly as a drop through water, a bright orange burning tear with a stubby tail, and I was able to gaze at it for long moments until it dropped out of sight.
I saw strange lights amongst the stars.
One night, while enjoying the skies outside in the street on one of those warm summer nights, I spotted a fiercely bright white star way down low in the southern sky, just over the tops of the houses. I had not seen the star there before, and thought it must be a planet, though I had never seen a planet so bright as that.
As I watched, I noticed a small red light way off to the right, moving in towards the star. I thought this must be a helicopter or plane, though it was solitary and not blinking. As the red light flew closer to the bright star, I realised the red light was on a divergent course with it, and that it might well fly right across it. What a curious coincidence.
The little red light SLOWED as it approached the star. Now I could see something of scale. The star was about four times as large as the smaller red light. In disbelief I watched while the red light ‘docked’ with the star, fixing itself against its upper right quadrant. In even more disbelief, I watched while the STAR AND RED LIGHT BEGAN TO MOVE AS ONE BACK ALONG THE WAY THE RED LIGHT HAD JUST COME. I watched for a long time until they finally went out of sight, still coupled together.
I could not fathom what I had just witnessed.* Some kind of space shuttle mission (I was very into the US Space Shuttle at that age)? An alien vessel? Something even weirder? I could not even tell if it was something miraculous or something possibly sinister.
* (I still have no clear answer as to what it was, only possible theories).
Seeing What We Want To See
In total darkness even the smallest glimmer of light makes all the difference. I had witnessed a breach in our reality, a breach in what is supposedly possible, and this meant that ‘the impossible’ was not what it seemed to be either. My imagination soared on wings of sudden impossibilities.
I started reading much more after that, anything fantastical that would take me to different worlds or times or places. In my Primary School, located up on the small rise past the woods and railway line, I wrote my first ‘novel’, called ‘Us Kids’, which included a fairly good illustration on the front cover of a sling-catapult held in the back pocket of a boy’s jeans. The illustrated ‘novel’ was all of ten pages long, and recounted the story of the school’s plumbing failing catastrophically one day so that the rooms and hallways ended up being flooded by several feet of water. With much mayhem the children took to upturned desks for rafts, and eventually paddled clear of the school and found their freedom.
The teachers were not terribly impressed by the message of this tale, with the children being cast as some kind of Spartacus, though I was very pleased with the project myself. I had gained a deep satisfaction in the sustained and focused efforts of its creation, realising that I had a knack for creative work as well as much pleasure in doing it. I had encountered something of my calling in life.
Now in school I decided to start a student group called LURO, which was the name of my home town attached to ‘UFO Research Organisation’. I made an illustrated guidebook and told some of my interested peers of what I had been seeing in the night skies, and they wanted to join. A buzz started with the children around the mysterious issue of UFO sightings, enough that the teachers started to take a keen notice.
One of my ‘friends’ at that time, who I will call ‘S’, was something of a young sorcerer – he was interested in Magic Illusions and hypnotism and far-out things like Aliens and Ancient Civilisations. He was a very ‘slithery’ kind of boy*, always making things up and changing his position depending on whatever suited him best at the time; a natural salesman. ‘S’ was quite jealous about these sightings I was reporting, for he had not seen anything like them himself.
* (Later in life, when we were talking drunkenly about ‘Native American’ animal totems, and I said my animal totem would likely, romantically, be some kind of high-soaring bird like an eagle, he confessed in all seriousness that his own inner being would best be represented by a SNAKE).
‘S’ was very into the magazines of the day that told lurid stories about alien abductions and UFO sightings. These glossy publications always seemed to be filled with illustrations so poor in quality they looked like they had been drawn by five-year-olds or people trying to draw like five-year-olds, alongside photos of flying dishes and lamp shades so blurry there was obviously some kind of joke going on that I did not get, and eye-witness accounts that proved or disproved nothing at all, only fanned the flames of the imagination for those who already ‘wanted to believe’ in these things. These publications never seemed to reflect the breathless reality and mystery of what I was seeing up there in the night skies. I never felt as though I was any closer to the truth after flicking through one of those UFO magazines.*
* I believe this is the point of all these UFO magazines and now UFO websites, which are used for gate-keeping, gaslighting and social-engineering just as much as any other popular publication or web presence.
One of the most striking details you find about the ‘UFO community’ upon looking into it is how rife it is with Intelligence assets, all of them pushing intentional misinformation, misdirection, and outright hoaxes upon people earnestly seeking the truth of the matter. Many of these Intelligence agents have been exposed over the years, though by the looks of it, many more have not been. After a while you start to wonder why Intelligence Agencies would be so interested in something that is supposedly nothing more than hysteria and swamp gas?
This leads you into finding out many of the links between supposed UFO sightings and secret man-made technologies. And then into even deeper connections between MK-Ultra experiments and ‘Alien Abduction’ stories, where the drugged kidnapping of ordinary citizens for regular trauma-based mind control sessions is undertaken under the truly bizarre cover of alien abductions. And how UFO Cults like the suicidal Heaven’s Gate cult tend to be experimental fronts for the Luciferian handlers of Intelligence Agencies. It also leads to links between ‘Cattle Mutilations’ and occult Ritual Satanic practices in the areas of those mutilations – which are always subsequently covered up by far-out suggestions of aliens coming here from light-years away just so they can mutilate the genitalia of North American steers. This also leads into finding out how some of the most notable and objective of UFO researchers, like Jacques Vallee, have come to believe that the UFO phenomenon is not in fact alien spacecraft visiting us from afar, but rather ‘demons’ or ‘spiritual beings’ already here on Earth.
In my own understanding, when they are not secret man-made technologies, they are sightings of angels both fallen and unfallen.
One day in school, when all of us children were outside during the lunch break, and the subject of UFOs were on many lips due to my LURO booklet, I spotted something white flying through the clear sky, which turned out to be an air liner flying at high altitude, though at such a perspective that you could barely see its wings.
I watched as my friend ‘S’ seized on this as a UFO sighting. At first I was mystified by his behaviour. Even at that age I considered truth to be the guiding light we were meant to be following as young ‘UFO researchers’, for only by pursuing truth and accuracy would we find out what was really going on up there. So I told him it was only a plane. Several times I told him it was only a plane. But I could see in his eyes that he already knew it was only a plane. It did not seem to matter to him. He claimed it was a classic ‘cigar-shape UFO’ like the photos in the UFO magazines he liked to read and show me. I watched while he made such a fuss about the supposed ‘UFO’ in the sky that all the other children gathered round to see it too. I watched as my friend and amateur-sorcerer whipped them up into such a fervour of shared hypnosis that they all started SEEING WHAT WAS NOT THERE, and they all started yelling even louder, some acting as though they were afraid. They were experiencing some form of mass hallucination, in which their own willing imaginations were playing a vital part.
The teachers were attracted to the drama, and they brought the children back inside. Pupils were spoken to. I told a teacher they had all gone nuts looking up at a plane, that was all that had happened.
As a consequence of that afternoon’s strange event, I had to stop my LURO activities while in school hours, and the other kids stopped talking about UFOs and looking up at the skies.
The Alien Within
Growing up together over the years, this particular ‘friend’ would reveal himself – time after time – to be the snake he would later confess to being. Backstabbing, backbiting, lying, envious and secretly competitive, he would often take my own insights and jokes, even stories of wild things that had happened to me, and pass them on as his own. Eventually I would come to see him as some kind of enemy rather than any real friend. In subsequent years I began to suspect his family of Masonic connections and worse. I also began to suspect that because of this, he had been subjected to his own horrors as a youth. This was confirmed to me much later, after falling out of touch with him for the last time, when I heard that he had allegedly been arrested/convicted on charges relating to child pornography.
Yet again a deeply hidden perversity had come to light in connection to my hometown.
They say that still waters run deep. I recall how adults would often say this about me as a boy, talking about me as though I was not there – perhaps hoping for some kind of response from my watchful silence. As a growing child, one of the many reasons I never felt part of this fallen world, or even – if I am to be entirely frank about it – part of my own human species, was that because I was so sensitive and observant towards everything, I could see the emotional responses of others while they talked, and so sometimes I could see their hidden inner workings.
This sensitivity towards other’s emotions had many down sides. It meant that whenever people very obviously ‘flew off the handle’ in my presence, an adult or child flying off into a rage or tantrum, or someone screaming in my face, I felt it very fiercely, like a gale blowing through me.
But it also allowed me to see a great deal. I would observe how these people would ‘lose control’ during these outbursts, yet were still spouting words and actions effectively. So I wondered just what had they lost control to? And where did they go whenever they became so obviously possessed by their emotions, sometimes like a raging beast or even something demonic?
It was my first hint of the inner SELF. My first sighting of the snake within.
However, it was not only a matter of anger and rage that caught my attention. With people like ‘S’, there were much more subtle impulses going on behind the mask he wore on his face, just as there were with many other people too.
Pride, jealousy, envy, lying, backstabbing, provocation, a desire to cause hurt …
These things were largely a mystery to me, and when I saw them in others it was like watching humans suddenly becoming something lesser than human. Always, I noticed, these things would be accompanied with inner writhings of emotions.
I began to suspect there was something alien within all of us. Something foreign that did not belong there. An invader that had somehow captured us from within.
I had already glimpsed the devil when I was a young child. Now I was seeing alien presences within people, and sometimes outright demons.
Not to mention all those strange, strange things in the night skies.
Sightings Of Angels
The wildest thing I ever saw in the night sky came flying right over the roof of my house one night.
I was outside in the driveway with my younger brother and looking upwards as usual, when something glided over the house so that we both froze in complete shock.
It moved slowly as it appeared over the rooftop. Almost like it was drifting, though it was moving straight ahead. And it was moving ENTIRELY SILENTLY.
It was not much wider than the rooftop. And not much higher either. It had a long body and a pair of wings which swept back severely like the wings of a gull. Though none of this was actually visible, body or wings, to the naked eye, save for the colourful lights that ran entirely around its outline – softly glowing multi-coloured lights like underwater gems lit from within – so that we could see its shape.
While my brother ran back into the house, I just stood there gawping like all my dreams had suddenly come true.
I felt a rush of liberation, I felt lifted in my heart clear of this world.
I was very aware that this was no man-made secret technology. It had a very ‘alien’ or otherworldly feeling about it. Much later I would be led into understanding how genuine ‘UFO sightings’ are not alien machines at all but rather spiritual beings or ‘angels’, messengers of God, appearing in our skies. And they are not all the rebellious fallen angels either as many like to suppose. For Yahweh is still Supreme, and some of these spiritual beings are God’s messengers sent for His purpose. Some of these angels of light are on our side.
In scriptures like Daniel 10, we are even told of Heavenly angels having to fight their way through enemy angels before they can make it to earth and undertake their mission.
These things were still unknown to me however. At that young age I did not consciously know that I was a captive on a planet occupied by enemy forces. A planet run by fallen angels and the human collaborators of an arch-enemy known to many as the Adversary, a fallen being of spirit who hates our species and in his madness wishes to destroy us all.
I was not aware that the human race found itself in such a desperate situation as that. Nor that there was no possibility of winning against all the odds, of defeating this enemy with our own wits and might. There was no million in one chance of victory, let alone of escape. For the battlefields of this occupation lie within each of us, and we are all entirely lost in them until we are saved; while the world at large is wrapped in delusions that go far beyond our ordinary comprehension. I was not aware that only outside intervention could free mankind from our fallen captivity. A hand reaching down into fallen Creation to rescue us. A lightning bolt of Judgement, a bloody sword of Justice and Truth. A divine Saviour who had already come once before, and had promised to return again in the last days.
But I knew I was in a war with the d/evils of this world, a war I had never asked for, had only been born into, and that I was already scarred deeply by the hostilities of this conflict raging against all mankind, cast as we are in Yahweh’s image. I’d had enough of the struggle and suffering, and I wanted out.
At the very least I desperately needed some help. I needed a hand to reach down and offer me aid and respite from this lonely battlefield of a life.
In silence, through streaming tears, I watched the strange vision of light clearing the rooftop in all its glorious colours. It was right overhead now as it flew across the street, and within me I heard the ringing words of a vital message:
YOU ARE NOT ALONE!
I felt these words like they were striking upon my heart. They carried such authority and power that still to this day, some 40 years later, they echo as clearly as the first time I heard them.
YOU ARE NOT ALONE
YOU ARE NOT ALONE
NEXT: A CHILD SOLDIER PART 3
May you be blessed with peace and understanding in these last days.
Colin Buchanan
thiswisefool@protonmail.com
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