Peacekeepers Among Us: The First Encounter

By Charles C. Carroll

At a time and in a place that we all experience, we commit, on a subconscious level, in consultation with our guardians, to a life plan and purposebut memory of this experience fades as we enter the earth plane. Now sixty years old, Fred Milford doesnt remember planning his lifes course before his birth, but he cant shake the subtle feeling that pointed to his destiny.

Working in the busy corporate world of high finances and ruthless behavior, Fred thrives, oblivious to the purpose for his life that his soul createdexcept for the subtle tugging that occasionally surfaces. Finally, life and health challenges intervene and raise the subtle vibrations to a pitch that can no longer be ignored, and Fred sets out to fill the emptiness in his heart. Along the way, he encounters strange people who will help him change his life. The guardians, mindful of their mission, assign a mysterious mentor to guide Fred on the complex journey to transformation, pushing him to the realization that the journey is only beginning on a long trajectory toward eternity.

In this novel, following heart surgery, a man reevaluates his life and, with guidance from otherworldly guardians, puts into motion a plan his soul created before he was born.

For additional information about the author and his writings,
please visit www.charlesccarroll.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781480845695

Charles C. Carroll

Charles C. Carroll is a retired college professor and administrator. He developed an interest in writing fiction at age ten; however, he put his dream on hold and pursued a career in education, where he focused on academic publications instead. Now in retirement, he is pursuing his longtime dream with his first book-length work of fiction. In addition to writing, Charles is involved in the professional practice of past-life regression hypnosis. He currently lives in Port Orange, Florida.

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Copyright © 2017 Charles C. Carroll.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4567-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4568-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4569-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017906402

Archway Publishing rev. date: 05/03/2017

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1: Return to Work

Chapter 2: The Dream

Chapter 3: Visiting Dad

Chapter 4: Carrie Worries

Chapter 5: Katie Contemplates

Chapter 6: Fred Remembers

Chapter 7: Fred Visits Dad

Chapter 8: Fred Talks Retirement to Carrie

Chapter 9: Fred Remembers the Lake House

Chapter 10: Fred Sr. Dies

Chapter 11: Fred Retires and Moves Back to Hometown

Chapter 12: Fred Sees Peace Door for First Time

Chapter 13: Through Peace Door, Part I

Chapter 14: Carrie Dreams

Chapter 15: Fred’s First Peace Door Journey

Chapter 16: Carrie Awakes— Remembers Meeting Fred

Chapter 17: Fred and Otis Head up the Mountain

Chapter 18: Carrie Suppresses Her Worry

Chapter 19: Fred and Otis Arrive at the Mountaintop

Chapter 20: Carrie Decides to Take Action

Chapter 21: Fred, Otis, and Eve Head to the Seashore

Chapter 22: Carrie Goes into Action Looking for Fred

Chapter 23: Fred and Otis Walk Along the Ocean Shore

Chapter 24: Carrie Reports Fred Missing

Chapter 25: Fred at the Seashore

Chapter 26: Rescue Squad Searches for Fred

Chapter 27: Trip up the Mountain and the Gift Shop

Chapter 28: The Search for Fred

Chapter 29: Fred and Otis Reach a Plateau on the Way up the Mountain

Chapter 30: Fred and Otis—up the Mountain II

Chapter 31: Fred and Otis— up the Mountain III

Chapter 32: Fred and Otis—Back to the Castle

Chapter 33: The Transcendent Ceremony

Chapter 34: Feeding the Birds

Chapter 35: Pleasant Grove

Chapter 36: Back around the Campfire

Chapter 37: Reemergence from the Door

Chapter 38: Fred Home after Journey I

Chapter 39: Fred’s Prostate Flares Up

Chapter 40: Visit to Urologist

Chapter 41: Bank Reunion and Treatment Consideration

Chapter 42: Prostate Cancer Treatment in the Dominican Republic

Chapter 43: Recuperating

Chapter 44: Fred Volunteers at the Community Center, Spots Otis

Chapter 45: Fred and Carrie at Restaurant

Chapter 46: Planning for Classes at Community Center

Chapter 47: First Class at Community Center

Chapter 48: Class Visit to Bank

Chapter 49: Visit to the Circle

Chapter 50: Class Meeting after Bank Visit

Chapter 51: Journey with the Wilsons

Chapter 52: Clearing the Air with Carrie

Chapter 53: Journey with Carrie

Chapter 54: Fred and Carrie— Post-Journey Breakfast

Chapter 55: New Duties at Community Center

Chapter 56: Post-Journey Discussion with the Wilsons

Chapter 57: Reflection with Carrie

Chapter 58: Welcome to Peacekeepers Corps

Chapter 59: Live

Chapter 60: Perfect Peace

Epilogue

About the Author

For the spirit seekers and my mother, Katie

Prologue

The elder seated at the head of the table tapped lightly with the gavel as he looked up from the scrolls he had been studying. The soul assignment meeting is called to order, he said, his voice a combination of a commanding tone and gentle persuasion.

The members around the table stopped conversing among themselves and directed their attention to the elder.

He continued, We have a young soul here who wishes to bring something special to earth in his lifetime. I think maybe he’s a bit ambitious, but I can’t argue with his intention.

One of the members at the table, a tall man with tan skin and salt-and-pepper hair, spoke up. I’ve looked at his proposed contract with interest also. I applaud his intention. I think this type of assignment is long overdue.

I agree, the elder answered. It’s just that every time someone takes such an assignment, they get sidetracked and never complete it. Any suggestions on how we can prevent it in this case?

The man ran his fingers through his hair, seeming to think deeply for a moment before saying, I have an idea.

Everyone focused their attention on the man.

My plan is simple. The man spoke slowly and deliberately. I will monitor this soul as he traverses this life and—

The elder interrupted. But remember, there are limits to what you can do to intervene.

Yes, I know. I do believe the prime directives allow for presenting opportunities and showing possibilities to subjects. Am I not correct?

The elder nodded agreement. Also, remember that even then, you must give the subject adequate time to realize his contractual agreement on his own before any type of intervention.

Yes, and allow the life challenges to occur on schedule. They are there to teach lessons that can only be learned through these experiences.

The elder nodded agreement again. Then, looking around to each member in turn, he asked, Everyone in agreement with this plan?

Agreed, the group answered in unison.

And so it is. The elder tapped the scroll with his gavel three times and said, This soul is hereby dispatched. May your life be successful, purposeful, and fulfilled. This soul assignment meeting is adjourned. He rolled the scroll neatly and placed it in a metal cylinder and then applied a seal.

Chapter 1: Return to Work

My mind drifted to a point eight weeks earlier …

It’s going to be like a controlled death, the surgical resident said offhandedly as she helped the orderly steer the gurney into the hallway. Lying supine on the gurney, I could see only the resident’s face and the ceiling tiles above as she uttered her pronouncement. I hope her performance in pharmacology exceeds her social skills, I thought. Surprisingly, the ceiling tiles had more compassion than the resident. They displayed positive messages, like You’re in good hands and Relax and be well. As the gurney bounced along, the words became blurry—likely the result of the sedative that the anesthesiologist injected into my IV while jokingly asking if I wanted a margarita. Of course I nodded yes.

We turned a couple of corners, and then the orderly stopped, smiled at my wife Carrie, who had been walking alongside and holding my hand, and said, Time for good-bye kisses.

Carrie bent over and kissed me gently on the lips, squeezed my hand, and whispered, See you in a few hours, sweetheart. In a moment, I felt the gurney move again through the double doors marked Surgery.

Fighting the effect of the sedative, I struggled to keep my eyes open. The cold, sterile, surgical suite appeared blurry and surreal. Stainless steel tables and humming machines filled the room. In the center, a narrow table with huge overhead lights caught my attention—that was where it would all happen, I assumed. The busy staff seemed to be floating among the various machines; their voices bouncing off the walls sounded like an echo in a hollow cave. Several staff members expertly transferred me to the narrow operating table, and someone proceeded to strap my arms down. Is this what it’s like to be positioned for execution? I wondered. Before I could contemplate further, a mask covered my face, flooding my nostrils with welcomed fresh, oxygen-enriched air.

Everyone around me was engaged in conversation, but no one was talking to me until the anesthesiologist said, I’m going to give you something to make you sleep.

As if I wasn’t already sleepy. She promptly pushed a syringe full of white liquid into my IV that the anesthesia resident had inserted earlier. I felt a prickly feeling in my arm, then my head. My memory went blank before the dreams came: Flowing garden, smelling the brightly colored daisies, then darkness, I guess. That was the last thing I remembered that day.

My ordeal had actually started eight weeks earlier while I sat in my office working, just like today. I remembered it vividly and relived it often, probably too often.

The buzzing of my cell phone interrupted my thoughts. The display read Dr. Logan—Cardiology Associates.

Hello, I said softly into the phone, hoping my voice sounded louder than my pounding heartbeat.

Mr. Fredrick Milford?

Yes, I answered. It always caught me off guard when called by my formal name. Everyone knew me as Fred.

Dr. Logan has your heart test results. Are you available this afternoon? He would like to go over them with you. The receptionist sounded professional, her voice giving no hint of the actual results, if she knew.

Sure, I can come this afternoon.

Okay, would three thirty work for you?

Yes, three thirty is fine.

Thank you, Mr. Milford. See you then.

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Today, my first day back at work after receiving my mechanical aorta heart valve, had been in some ways like the first day on a new job. So much happened to me in the six weeks of sick leave that today I felt out of place. I needed to reorient myself. For the past hour, I had sat at my desk reflecting on the meeting in the conference room an hour earlier. The metallic clicking sound of my new mechanical valve, while reassuring, was disconcerting. Although I had closed the door in order to get a few minutes of quiet time, the glass walls still provided me with a view of the busy lobby, where customers drifted in and out. I needed to reconcile a few things in my mind and get back into the groove of working, back to focusing on bank business. But my mind wandered. Looking at the assortment of things on the desk, a small globe caught my eye, the grand prize I won at a drawing in the exhibit hall of a banking convention years earlier. Those had been the good days—times likely long gone, never to return.

The good days had been an exciting time for me. Young, aggressive, and determined to succeed had been my personal marching orders. Success, of course, was defined as making as much money for the bank and myself as possible while climbing the corporate ladder. I didn’t know then, but I later learned that the banking business was tough and would require me to grow thick skin. I grew that skin without hesitation. If customers sometimes got the short end of things, then so be it. Banks existed to make money, not to play a helping role in people’s lives.

My mind continued to drift. At the conference, workshop after workshop and speaker after speaker emphasized strategies for making more and more money. I eagerly soaked it all in. One speaker, ironically in the most poorly attended session of the conference, had the gumption to mention the noble role that banks played in building communities. Only later did I understand the nervous laughter that followed his declaration.

Afterward, visiting the exhibit hall had been a fun distraction. I passed out business cards freely and hobnobbed with vendors as they hawked their wares—everything ranging from bank furniture to branding items such as the globe. Imprinted on the globe was a suggested business-building tagline: We are your world. In exchange for my card, the vendor gave me a small globe for my keychain and entered me in a contest to win the large tabletop model. When I won the table model as the exhibit closed, I took it as an omen of being in the right place at the right time. I left the conference full of excitement and eager to implement the wonderful strategies I heard about.

My thinking at the conference reflected my way of thinking since college. As the epitome of the young professional determined to make my mark on the business world and to make loads of money in the process, I gave both goals a heck of a run. I had lots of fun doing so and enjoyed the success and money that resulted as well. However, as time passed, I began to feel that something was missing. I had an occasional gnawing in my stomach that grew in frequency over the years. Now, sitting in my office, I felt that familiar longing arise. As always, it started with emptiness in my gut and gradually enveloped my mind, leaving me feeling distant and discontented. And on top of that, I had to live with a new reality—a major body function, my heartbeat, depended on a mechanical device implanted in my chest.

I knew the discontented feeling didn’t result from being unfulfilled from a material standpoint. I had been quite successful as measured by promotions and earnings. However, with each promotion and salary increase, I found that rather than feeling excited and satisfied, I felt alone and disconnected. The breaking point of that disconnection occurred when I refused what should have been a crowning moment in my career—promotion to regional senior vice president. The promotion was potentially the open door to ascending to the top of the banking industry. But rather than accept the promotion, I declined and asked to be assigned as a branch manager. I hadn’t stated my reasoning publicly, but I knew I needed time to reevaluate my life. I also knew it started with an incident I made every effort to not think about. Normally, I successfully suppressed thoughts of the incident—at least during waking hours. However, away from work, I found it more and more difficult to fill the emptiness that bothered me more and more.

Turning to look at the larger globe on my small meeting table, I noticed that the globe was turned to the Middle East. I thought of the ongoing military conflict there, and my mind returned to pondering the morning’s meeting. The meeting had started normally. As branch manager, my job was to balance the needs of customers with the profit needs of the bank. I understood that and realized that inevitably this would sometimes lead to unhappy customers and stressful meetings. I considered myself to be a seasoned businessman who could deal with those types of situations.

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The young couple in the meeting this morning, along with their two-year-old child, was an army veteran and his pregnant wife, Bill and Sue Owen. Bill, a recently discharged sergeant, home for only a few months from his second tour of fighting in the Middle East and recovering from a combat injury, made the appointment to seek a solution to their mortgage problems. The husband’s temporary disability rendered him unable to seek gainful employment in his first few months home, and according to him, for the next few months he simply had been unable emotionally to conduct a serious job hunt. The small disability check he was receiving didn’t cover the family’s expenses. His recurrent nightmares about the explosion that resulted in his injury continued to occasionally haunt him but not to the extent that it made him dysfunctional. Now, with the temporary setback behind him, it was time to get on with life.

Well spoken, very polite, and obviously very patriotic, he ended his brief story with a statement that could have come from an army manual: I am proud of my part in preserving the peace and would not hesitate to serve again. Listening to him, I imagined Sergeant Owen standing at attention and making this statement to an attentive audience.

Although dressed in civilian clothes, Sergeant Owen’s haircut and attitude were gung-ho military. Fit and trim and very respectful, punctuating his speech with sir, yes, sir, and no, sir in a professional but not subservient manner, he presented the image of the model solider. The wife, similarly as nice, who hung onto every word her husband spoke, presented the picture of someone who took care of the home front while her husband served his country. Obviously, she adored him. I liked the couple immediately.

The army veteran benefits, along with help from their parents, sufficed to gradually get them over their initial rough spot. A week earlier, Sergeant Owen landed a job as a construction foreman, and according to the veteran, for the first time in a couple of years, he felt like life was beginning to return to normal. Their current problem was a delinquent mortgage—five months in arrears. The bank participated in a government program to assist homeowners who found themselves in a bind with their mortgages. However, a caveat of the program was that eligibility for participation was limited to homeowners who were no more than three months behind in their mortgage. The caveat was meant to be a protective one with the assumption that the homeowners’ ability to recover would be compromised if the debt burden was too high. However, the bank could use discretion to make exceptions if the homeowner showed good faith and there were extraneous circumstances.

My instinct was to seek a way to assist the Owens; however, unfortunately for the Owens, today was the day for the regional executive vice president to visit the branch office. I always dreaded the man’s visit. Tim Boswell’s reputation for toughness and ruthlessness when it came to maximizing the bank’s profit was well known. His strategies served him well—catapulting his rise to becoming a regional executive. His career at the bank started at the same time as mine, and while I had chosen to work the branch manager position, Tim, on the other hand, aggressively pursued higher positions and now supervised branch managers, myself included, statewide.

Tim was clearly a banker’s banker. He was ruthless and according to him, did things by the book. He failed to acknowledge that the book allowed some flexibility. It was easier to just blame it on following the rules. Dressed in his top-of-the-line suit with matching shirt and tie, Tim looked the part of the successful banker. However, I doubted very seriously whether he could hold a candle to the likes of Sergeant Owen. I smiled to myself as I thought about Tim coming face to face with an enemy soldier. He would probably break into a cold sweat, and his self-assured confidence would disappear into thin air.

During the meeting with the Owens, while I listened carefully and sought to develop a solution, Tim sat with his arms folded and stared out the window, his dark brown eyes showing no emotion as Bill Owen described his odyssey in the desert in the Middle East, his return home, his recovery from his injury, and now, finally, how things were looking up for his family. He needed only a little time to get his finances in order, he assured us. He spoke confidently, with the expectation that we would understand and would be truly interested in helping. His wife, Sue, sat looking admiringly at her husband, her eyes revealing her confidence in him and in their future as a family.

When Sergeant Owen finished his story, I began to review their financial status with the bank with the intention of finding a solution. I knew that I could extend the mortgage for a few more months as long as I could get assurance that the Owens would keep their end of the bargain. However, just as I began to explore options and get a commitment from the Owens, Tim interrupted, using his authority as regional executive vice president, and said, I’m sorry, Mr. Owen, there is nothing that the bank can do. We will be starting foreclosure procedures on your house within the next few days.

Bill Owen looked at him in shock. He clearly could not believe what he was hearing. But, Mr. Boswell, I have a job now and—

I’m sorry, Mr. Owen, Tim interrupted. There is nothing that we can do. As he spoke, Tim gathered the files from the table, indicating to the Owens that the meeting was over.

Bill Owen looked at me pleadingly. A sob escaped from Sue Owen. I felt helpless and knew that at that moment my hands were tied.

The Owens quietly gathered their things and left the bank. Tim accompanied me as I walked back to my office. By now, my frustration was boiling over. Why didn’t we at least give them a chance? I inquired. After all, you know that starting foreclosure now means that it will be at least a year before we can take possession of the house. Why scare them into thinking they would be on the street in weeks?

Tim laughed lightly. A chance to get further in debt? he retorted sharply, his piercing brown eyes were so cold that I knew it was no use to even try discussing the Owens further.

I sighed deeply as Tim changed the subject to how he single-handedly increased profits in the state and recently won a national sales contest. He talked nonstop for about twenty minutes, with only an occasional nod from me. Abruptly, he looked at his watch and announced that he was leaving.

As he went out the door, he slapped me on the back and said, Don’t take this so hard, Fred. You know, bankers do have hard jobs. As an afterthought, he added, Glad to see you back at work. Hope your ticker is okay.

I wondered what I should do. I routinely helped people like the Owens many times and would have done so today if not for the unlucky timing of Tim’s visit. I needed to find a way to help. In an instant, I decided what I would do. I picked up the phone and dialed the Owens’s number. They hadn’t arrived home yet, so I left a message on the answering machine.

Fred Milford at the bank … Please call me as soon as you can. I think maybe I can help you after all. I hung up quickly, resisting