A Mystic Knower’s Sojourn in a World of Time

By Frank Scott and Nisa Montie

This modern-day mystic knower’s written essence of a lifetime is a prelude to the twenty-five books coauthored with his eternal companion over the last five years.

Composed of personal, unusual, and miraculous events, these experiences serve to open our eyes to the nature and purpose of the workshop we call creation, a simulator, only, of the eternal domain of perfections toward which we should set our sights.

Read this book to find out where the soul and the spirit’s compass points are—or risk not remembering and returning to endless worlds of time.

Oneness from within and from without is at hand—reach for it, and a flawed world becomes paradise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Nov 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781982216191

Book preview

Time-track Shift

I t’s the day before Christmas, the summer of 1955, Peru. In my first time going to the mountains, the air is fresh; the day is clear. I’m up front with my father in the passenger seat, so I won’t scuffle with my younger siblings. Mom is in the back to keep order. It’s a long trip in a station wagon, especially for a nine-year-old.

We’re on our way to the family’s residence in the Andes, one of several homes built in a mountain valley. Dad is the accountant for a mining outfit. Everything is new to me, even the high-altitude air. As we climb up the road at twenty-five miles-per-hour, the air becomes thinner and thinner. Unable to adjust to the lack of oxygen, I pass out and fall forward, knocking against the protruding door handle. Suddenly I’m falling out the door, onto the gravel road, and rolling like a tumble weed. I come to a stop sitting up. Everything seems far away. Dad comes running and holds me. I complain of a pain in my right knee.

Mom brings a clean diaper from my younger sister and places it on my forehead. I keep complaining about my right knee. When they tear my right pant’s leg to discover the source of the pain, my knee’s gashed and bleeding. A second diaper is used to wrap it, then they carry me back to the station wagon.

Arriving at the mining camp clinic, and sitting while an orderly cleans the wounds and prepares me for emergency surgery, is the last thing I remember.

When I wake up, I’m looking forward to opening my Christmas presents—except I’ve been in a coma for over two months.

A woman has her back to me, facing the clinic doctor. The doctor tells her I may never walk again.

Yes, I will, I tell myself.

I speak up, and they turn in surprise. The woman looks like my mother, yet there are subtle details letting me know she must be someone else.

"You are not my mother!" I tell her. She’s hurt, but the doctor reassures her that this is a normal reaction after the kind of accident I had.

Later, Dad comes to pick us up and take us home. That is, a man comes who looks familiar, but doesn’t feel like my real father. I tell him that he’s not my father. My mother says something to him, and the issue is never mentioned again.

The issue would have ended right then and there if it weren’t for the event that happens when I return to school. My leg’s in a cast. I’m walking with crutches. So far, so good, until I enter the classroom.

They are teaching science and math. I remember being in the liberal arts program—performing as the star in the school plays. What happened to my old life? Or is this my life?

I immediately go to see the principal, who assures me that I’m in the correct program. He pulls my records, verifying his initial response, even showing me a list of my studies of the previous year. They are just as he said.

Feeling very disturbed, I walk out of the office and happen to run into a teacher I knew well from the previous year. Surely, Sister Maria will remember my role as a pirate, dressed in black boots, cape, and the costume specially tailored by my aunt. How could she not remember her top honor student in the arts program? I ask whether she remembers my performances. Sister Maria looks at me, puzzled,

You must be mistaken. I don’t know you.

What happened to my former life? Whose life am I living now? Whose memories are these, in whose body?

At home and at school, I acquiesce, over time, to the new actuality. Only many years later will I understand that I may be a walk-in. The tenant of the body in the coma left. I came in, and inherited that entity’s memories stored in the cells. Perhaps, the time-track was shifted for my Mission, along with those playing the roles of my mother, father, and teachers. Even the school records were changed!

Or so it seems….

Fly, Fly, Little One

I t’s 1957. I’m eleven years old. At night, I have the first of three dreams.

I’m flying high above the clouds, all dressed-up like Superman. I can feel and see my cape. Enjoying everything, unafraid, I dive towards the ocean, then fly up again, then down towards land. I do pirouettes in the sky, then fly straight ahead again.

As I’m flying, I look down towards the beach. A man in a dark suit waves at me to come down. Curious to find out what he wants, I zip down to land in front of him. He points at my costume, asking,

What’s with the outfit?

I want to fly, so I’m wearing Superman’s costume, I answer defiantly.

He answers me strangely,

"You don’t need to wear Superman’s costume to fly here. This is your dream-world. You can do what you want."

I wake up, feeling uneasy, but soon forget about the man in my dream. A few nights later, I’m again flying high near the clouds in my dream. Looking down at the beach, I see he’s there, the man dressed in black, waving at me to come over. I join him.

What’s with the belt? he asks this time.

It’s Superman’s belt. I need it to fly!

This is your dream-world, he repeats. You can do whatever you want. You don’t need anything else.

The next time I fly in my dreams, I’m dressed like a typical eleven-year-old—shorts, t-shirt, socks, and running shoes. The man dressed in black is no longer on the beach. He doesn’t need to be. I have everything I need, being myself. It is my life to live fearlessly—in whatever way I am guided.

The Inner Voice

I t’s 1958, and I’m twelve-years-old. My father’s older sister has come to visit from the United States. Aunt Sallie and I don’t get along very well, as she never speaks to me beyond the usual niceties. Yet, for some reason, she joins me outside, as I’m watching the sun set, one lovely evening.

How are you doing? she asks. Unlike in our previous encounters, I decide to answer her honestly, sharing my deepest thoughts and feelings,

Well, I don’t love you, or anyone. I don’t trust anyone. I have decided to bring only what is essential and true into my world and heart. I need to know many things to understand this world in relation to my life.

Despite my opening myself up to her, my aunt does not respond. Instead, she walks back into the house. Later, I find out she told my father,

Your son doesn’t think like a young person. I don’t mind that she left, being deeply engrossed in contemplating the conditions of the world.

It seems to me that people are not nice; the city is corrupted and dangerous; there is so much poverty and crime that no one is safe; and the solutions appear unavailable, with everything getting worse all the time.

As I contemplate the way things are, I surmise that the only way things can get better is if Jesus returns. After all, He has promised. Being born in a religious family in a country where ninety-eight percent of the population is Catholic, my reference to Jesus is normal and expected.

Were I to have lived in the Middle East, I would have referred to Muhammed as the only solution. Were I to have I lived in the Far East, I would have asked for assistance from the Buddha. My understanding at this time depends upon my place of birth, the views my parents hold, and the most prevalent belief-system current in my surrounding environment.

Unexpectedly, the answer comes from within, a Voice saying,

He has come with a different Name.

Imagine my surprise and happiness! I now know that there is